When you finally kneel at the roots of the ancient ones
of bark and bough
and a slowness
that makes you hollow out your lungs to a depth that makes them ache with longing
for those times their client eyes, as knots, have seen,
You mustn’t come with empty hands.
Your path back into their weave
Must be peppered with tiny gestures, fixing stitches
A curved piece of yellow honeycomb.
The burning times
Were also hot and violent and deadly
For the oak
the silver birth
So when you come now,
To sit and listen,
To hear their stories,
Which threads to hold,?
Which loop to catch?
Which knot to untie?
As you sit and ponder how to weave this new Earth
Come in reverence and deep humility.
Speak first of your apology.
Because right now, you are owed nothing.
And then, she knows, atonement will be part of your healing too.