If you were to ask I’d proudly tell you that I am a tender

of the quiet in the morning and the gentle lifting of light through the trees.

I’d tell you I’m a noticer of subtle shifts

between your breath and mine.

If it were a box to check I’d confidently scribble into a simple life of reverence–

to nature’s infinite grace and resilience, resting and reweaving herself in waves.

Patterning out a pace for us to find our way

with our disparate instruments clanging around in her warm womb.

Like young wildlings learning the movement of our legs,

constantly begging our mother’s attention.

Until the gentle of her eyes and the calloused pads of her fingertips find us,

softly instilling in us this business of tending.

Resetting our collective metronome

so we once again feel the space between her breath and ours.

So we once again find the worn path she’s been walking with us all along.

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