Whoever told you that nature is dead
wasn’t listening
I hear the conversations of trees
the breath of flowers
the creaking wood
rushing steps of tiny mites
navigating the pores in stone
I hear the undulation of the web
matrix evolving
life is motion

Whoever told you that nature is irrelevant
wasn’t listening
We imitate birdsong
emulate ant colonies
follow wild trails
build with earth and ores
heal with plant bodies
drink the sun

Whoever told you that nature is not us
wasn’t listening
these pines comb the same wind
that nourishes my bloodstream
these seeds and fruits give life
to my cells

I am a playful finch
rushing torrent
jagged mountain
wandering insect
mighty Oak Woman
firmly rooted
abundant branches
gently swaying

I. Am. Listening.

© S. Rinderle, 8/3/14
Published in Catching Calliope, Winter 2015

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