The Song

A child

Dances

Forth

From the depths of

God’s imagination.

Her hair blows

About her face,

Her toes

Unclenched

In the lush, green grass

Of summer.

She is calm,

Her face—

Untouched

By lines of worry—

Is turned to meet

The sunrise.

The wind

Whispers

In her ear,

Singing songs of ancient lands.

The trees

Beg

Her to allow them to

Lift their roots

Out of the soft earth that has

Bound them

For so long.

The robins ask her

In never-ending birdsong

To fly

Among the budding leaves

With them.

The bees buzz in

Astonishment

At God’s new creation,

Their gossip forgotten.

Earth itself seems to

Pause,

Waiting to see what will

Happen next.

The girl smiles,

Respecting every aspect of nature

As it had

Never

Been respected before.

The sun shines

Brighter;

The animals stride with

Their heads held high;

The breezes

Swirl

With new purpose.

Thus, the golden age of the earth.

And the child aged,

Never losing her footing on

The mossy rocks

Of the ever-flowing rivers.

When she died,

The earth

Grieved

For a hundred years,

Wishing

That the girl would be

Eternal

As the swirling wind.

Mother Earth

Was soon elected Spokeswoman

Of all the creatures.

She begged God for

One more

Of the animals such as the

Child.

So, God created Adam.

All of nature was overjoyed,

But after

Whispering

Into his ear and

Running about his feet,

Their sorrow returned,

Nipping at them,

Smirking in their faces,

For this man

Overlooked

All that was around him,

Only seeing the

“Useful”.

Nature was

Devastated.

“Don’t you

Understand,”

The wind whispered

Uselessly

Into his ear,

“We would give you

Everything

That you need, and

More,

If only you would

Let us?”

But he was

Deaf

To the voices of the wind.

Today,

The beauty of the earth has

Forgotten its

Voice.

The birds only chirp,

Their long, lovely voices

Quenched out by

Sorrow.

The rushing river only

Splashes and slurps,

But doesn’t quite remember

Its old, divine voice.

The trees stand still,

Hating their destined fate,

But accepting

The humans that come and

Chop

Them

Down,

Not knowing how to

Pull their roots

Free of the

Hard, hard earth.

Only the wind

Remembers the tune

Of that

Small,

Beautiful song

That the child used to whisper

Into the very being of creation.

It remembers the melody,

But not the words.

So it searches

Every human,

Whispering into their ears,

Begging them

For the lyrics,

But it is batted away.

Perhaps the human race has

Separated

Nature from itself.

So it waits for just

One

To see the truth

And hear the

Wind’s

Message,

For even Mother Earth,

The elected spokeswoman

Has lost her voice.

However,

Just as the

Mist

That hovers

Directly over the ground

Will one day

Rise

And change form into

Rain,

Nature knows that the

Child

May still be

Alive,

Just changed in appearance.

This, and the

Constant,

Quiet singing of the wind

Is the

Hope

To which the

Earth

Clings.

Hear the wind.

We all know the words to the

Child’s song.

Find them.

Whisper them.

Sing them.

Know them.

Written by Megan

May 23, 2012