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  • Writer's pictureMj Pettengill

Sing Again

I walked, and I waited beneath gray skies and syncopated rain. I could not find a reason to stay, yet I could not find it in my heart to leave. The birds sang sweetly in the middle of the day. The river brought me home.

I envied the courage of the deep purple crocuses when they joined in song, not caring that they might die tomorrow.

The language of the senses spoke, wrapping around me like a tight-fitting glove. To stir me, the wind blew through the outer edge of the Pine Grove. The giant White Pines called in separate creaking voices to remind me of their presence. I stopped and listened like it was the first time. [It was not, but then again, it was].

I heard what they had to say, and with the guidance of my inner compass, I could follow the conversation. Distinctive pitches swirled gracefully above within the highest green boughs stretched towards the sky. An urgent cacophony of voices begged to be heard and then subsided, dying down to the eldest White Pine’s deep, ancient voice commanding peace and order.

When the wind ceased, the silence tormented me. Was it greedy to want more from all possible voices of this green Earth? I think not. It is with love, joy, and concern that I hear messages woven within an earthly tapestry of sacred harmony.

The weeping clouds passed overhead, pausing long enough to witness the truth yet not long enough to quench the ground [so ripe within].

I was grateful for the crow that flew fretfully from one woody branch to the next in an effort to stir the wind. Losing patience and yearning to awaken, I climbed onto the Prayer Rock and waited for the mournful choir of the Pine Grove to sing again.

Journal: Babies Breath © Mj-Generated, Daisyfields Press (Cross Post: Substack)

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