Wandering Truth, Moon Musing #15, December 2016
One of the wanderers in a field strewn with poppies
covering the forgotten gods.
A wanderer unequal to the task
burying ragged roots like messengers from the tangled deep.
The Earth is your shroud
the crafted bulk of clay become a jug
and I drink in the wandering
of forgotten gods.
Seized by tenderness
I hear the tendrils creeping down
deep in the weeping there
among the buried.
The root takes hold where all the years
of craft and doubt
now gnarled into a fisted seed
a clump of dangerous persistent seeking
there in the lampless night
I hear the faint hum of wintering bees
fastened to their honeyed combs.
How long will it take to wake forgotten gods?
How long will it take to scatter the pattern of the starry heavens
on the poppy sleep fields?
How many pitchers of truth does it take
to encourage a new tree to grow?
(for the gods do not forget)
But I am not a god.
Only a messenger.
And here is the message:
In this nodding field we are all one root
buried and reborn
and that is the wandering
The Wandering Truth
by Lutia Lausane, copyright Just Peachy Productions, December 2016
Image by David Aleksis