For the one day in April we humans set aside
to honour our Mother the Earth
(as though we might forget her
for the other 364 days of the year,)
I open the music box of poems I save.
seeking from some gifted poet, words worthy of her.
I scan, set aside, lamentations expressing our grief,
our innumerable failures to honour and love the source of our life.
I choose instead a poem by Alfred LaMotte
for its celebration of all that she is:
who art in Gaia,
brown as loam, nameless as rain,
may your presence be a golden void,
the absence of the search.
Let your family dwell here as a circle,
not a kingdom,
where spirit and body, heaven and earth
mingle and small sacraments
of compost and compassion.
Be the breath we take,
the breath we make each day
with her own wrinkled hands.
Let our prayer’s word be “Enough.”
For you are the weaver of galaxies
into nests for young planets,
and using the whole sky in a robin’s egg.
In you we are always home.
Dissolve the veil of judgment,
dispel our illusions of impurity,
so that we may immerse one another
in your bodily fluids
of abounding goodness.
For thine is the roundness,
and the brokenness
and the healing.