She knows

When you finally kneel at the roots of the ancient ones

of bark and bough

furling leaf,

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,

She knows

You mustn’t come with empty hands.

Your path back into their weave

Must be peppered with tiny gestures, fixing stitches

A feather,

A bead,

A curved piece of yellow honeycomb.

The burning times

Were also hot and violent and deadly

For the oak

the silver birth

the hazel

the alder

So when you come now,

To sit and listen,

To hear their stories,

To ask…

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.

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