One Revolution

Early in the year,
snow lingers on Cougar Ridge.
I take rosehips and cedar boughs,
and kneel at the granite spring.
Someone speaks alder catkins and sheer-spun waters.
Icy blue skies flood out at my feet.

I tend the soil, follow natural laws,
study the creature, yet see through netted wings.
I lay hands on each seedling;
learn the ABC’s of benediction.
Like the insects, I buzz
with unspeakable joy.

I gather yarrow in the stricken field
and bundle its oily flower.
To heal the land,
the root of my tongue is pounded as tonic,
and preserved in darkened jars.

I pull sinew from bone and bough
and lay an altar:
O Word, become flesh.
Breath kindles the filament air.
I pass through the birthing chair.

© “Copyright 9/2/2009 by Sara Hall”
All Rights Reserved.
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