Crimson Cascade
Here,
Passion and life is percussion;
A drum by threaded angelhair
Fashioned by hands of elders
Where flesh calloused strikes lambskin
And with the tremor that follows,
A crimson cascade
The unborn are roused from slumber
For it is the time to scout their obstacles
And weave tales of triumph into tapestry
Now,
Gnarled wood does not grow for slaughter
The Daughter of Earth reaches skyward
To suckle, to drink from the giving of Light Mother
Thriving always but emerging at her pace
And her mosaic,
The Kingdom of Children
Rest and raise upon her but do not belong to her
They are the saplings of sustenance,
Fruit of life’s plan for contingency
Always,
The blossom does not sprout
Without roots clenched deep within soil
Mulch will smother the sapling, aspiring
For limbs greater than itself
But rain that filters through canopy
Sweet from pollen
Let it be your catalyst
That fruit most succulent may grow
And feed the aspiring young of genesis.
(August, 2006)
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