This is a good place to be born ...

This is a good place to be born.

The damp of the soil breathes out a cool welcome.

The hill, seeking the river below,

at this point cleaves itself,

        willed or not, to make a nest.

In the cleft, the water slows, swerves,

digs deeper, seeking only after the scent of gravity.

Slowed, the water falls prey to waiting seeds who, in growing,

slow it further, harnessing it to their leafy offspring.

The gift of earth-mother is the gift of permanence.

She waits coolly for us to come to her.

Receiving no promise of gentleness, we come

and find a place to rest.

She moves where she moves. 

Sometimes, in fits she awakens and throws aside her covering of people.

She brings mountains down and waters up - driven by personal fires within that even her lithic calm sometimes lets slip.

When she rests, we come back to her folds, mistaking her dormancy for sanctuary; her inattention for peace.

I wait. My waiting is not for you, but yours to use while it is here.

I love the warmth of your presence and the coolness of your absence.

My dance is the same, come or go.

You must live your unquiet.

For reasons I cannot see, you were born to heat and noise.

I will hold my quiet until the need of it

fills your ears.

You will try to touch the sun.

I will wait in the shade of my own making for you to slip down again.

Upon your singed fall I await. You will have need of coolness.

I am first-mother.

I am first-lover.

Your qualities make you long for me beyond your reach.

You hunger to find all, and to bring all with you.

Wisdom is in knowing what to leave behind,

what to trust to remain.

Find the stars - I will be here.