THE VOICE

As seen at Coffee House Writers

I stand in the middle of a meadow.
Stars sparkle in the night sky.
The moon’s beams embrace the
open petals of the moonflowers.

The wind plays with my hair
as she whispers into my ear.
She wants me to know,
the words of my ancestors.

She tells me
she is the voice
of the ancient ones.
Those lost to time.

She is the voice
I hear in the rain,
in the intertwined flames,
and the rumble of the land.

She tells me
her sadness,
her hunger,
and her pain.

She tells me
She is the voice
of the past,
of the present,
and of the future.

She knows why I am here.
To get back to what is true
to what is right,
back to her.

I embrace her,
the wind frees me
the fire warms me
the rain hydrates me
the land nourishes me.

I am stronger with her.
You are stronger with her.
We are stronger with her.

For, without her
death comes
to me,
to you,
to us.

Hear the voice.

Heed the call.

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