Shira,
The mother tree.
I hear her calling me to step off the path.
And into the trees.
Over my heels soft moss grows.
My trunk rights itself.
I breathe more easily.
By themselves my arms rise from my sides.
In each hand a snake appears.
I am priestess again.
Beneath the soles of my feet,
Small roots Join up with the mycelia.
Who hold her story.
From here in Scotland to her homelands in ancient Canaan and Palestine,
The filigree threads of her truth are unbroken.
A sharer.
Her name is a murmur in the loam.
I find a tree who chooses me as hers.
And make my offering.
I walk in a circle around her wise girth.
Merge with the time when she was revered all over the earth.
A sacred mother whose goodness is everywhere.
Restored,
I meander back to the main path.
Pull a juicy apple from my bag.
Every tree is the tree of life.
My heart song is burgeoning with love.
For everything that matters most.
Respect for children,
Clean water,
Rivers teeming with life.
Fresh air,
Fertile soil.
Women's leadership.
Indigenous wisdom,
Beauty,
Resistance and celebration.
