i am listening to the universe.
i am listening to the hidden worlds:
the spider web, the supernova, the water droplet,
the memory of nectar, of thunder, of ancient amber,
of blood, oil, dew.
i am a bridge between these hidden worlds and you.
i will translate them into something you will comprehend.
i will tell you of them in ways you comprehend.
i will tell you when the wind is blowing.
i will tell you the wind blows briskly.
i will tell you a storm comes.
i will tell you to gather by me for protection.
i will tell you when it is safe.
i will tell you when the wind slacks and dies away
into the eastern skies,
but you will have to listen very hard
because my voice will be nearly silent then.
i will be nearly silent.
i will be the sentinel.
as you open your eyes,
i will tell you the primordial fire
has ignited the morning of the world,
and the world is glad.
and your eyes open to see the gladness.
i will render the sacred waves
as long, slow echoes for your sleeping ears.
i will not wake you for this,
it will not be necessary.
i will be a vessel to hold them for you.
i fill and brim over as you slumber.
i will bear the weight of wafting petals.
i will bear the weight of bee and moth.
i bear the weight of fallen leaves.
i will bear the weight of the shimmering stars.
i will bear the weight of the frost.
i bear the rain,
and i know of your wish for the rain to end.
i bear the rain.
you may gather by me for protection if you wish.
the rain ebbs.
i will tell you it will not be long.
i will tell you of the invisible.
i will sing its song for you:
not a song of gossamer and wild geese skimming the sky,
but an earth-song, deep and full,
a song made as strong as bones
to bear you through the length and breadth
and full measure of all your days.