What is my name,
when I have had so many faces.
Crossed paths with many a soul.
Crossed many chasms.
Died many a death.
Yet always like a flower,
poised to open my petals for the sun.
Like a flower my leaves fall off,
yet they grow back,
with a nurturing hand and time.
Sun so near and yet so far.
My brothers and sisters hold hands,
through the ages,
sand endlessly falling through the cracks.
On the highest mountain I lay prostrate before the sun,
to feel but it’s warming soothing rays.
Like roots my feet intertwined with the very earth they stand on.
My hair grows freely over my head grasping at the rays.
My hands give the signal to call for the hunt.
All animals in nature get they’re share of food.
Nature satiated and free,
roams beyond the enclosed spaces we put away for them.
Smoking the pipe of peace with the Indian.
He shares many a funny story about those squirrels,
Filling every crevice with they’re lovely nuts.
This lovely squirrel then leaves some nuts to grow into strong and mighty trees.
This furry guardian of the trees, ever kind.
Where do they not already share for themselves?
Yet without a guide they could never have done that, or could they?
Has it not been their inherent power every moment?
Or those bees and the story with the flower.
Be you strong or weak or does it even matter?
Is not that same inherent power within you?
Already there, just waiting to be recognised.
You must log in to post a comment.