If my soul exists
I believe it sits in the warm hollow of my ear.
It sits and it listens
to the wind that rises and stirs the bough of white pine,
and to the rustle of the last leaves holding to the oak.
It listens to the morning dove calling her mate in cool grey light
and the clap of heron’s wing, loud as thunder, as he ascends to sky.
It listens to the fall of snow, soft and deep, dancing along the field
and the wash of rain turning the pebbles along the river’s bank.
It sits in the warm hollow and makes me to listen
to the world’s message, a hushed whisper that sounds like love.
The world, as it bends to meet me again with arms wide open.
I believe it sits in the warm hollow of my ear.
It sits and it listens
to the wind that rises and stirs the bough of white pine,
and to the rustle of the last leaves holding to the oak.
It listens to the morning dove calling her mate in cool grey light
and the clap of heron’s wing, loud as thunder, as he ascends to sky.
It listens to the fall of snow, soft and deep, dancing along the field
and the wash of rain turning the pebbles along the river’s bank.
It sits in the warm hollow and makes me to listen
to the world’s message, a hushed whisper that sounds like love.
The world, as it bends to meet me again with arms wide open.
Click to listen to an audio recording of the poem.
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