The ancient origin myth is a rite of passage-our story as original seed.
Tell me your story.
In our story is the original seed,
our promise. Like the light of a new moon.
Like a centuries old woman, hidden,
her life, like the labyrinth,
An echo perhaps, a memory, from before the earth is born.
The tree in the mountain, she is veiled.
Warm and protected, quiet and unhurried, she
patiently waits, teaching me to wait. Her golden branches
blaze within the mountain, our actions
leave traces which resonate in the distance.
Root and branch, pebble, and stone:
my, flesh and bone: an integral part of the mountain.
Deer scamper, their magic antlers and
jewel like eyes, a god disguised.
Geese fly, their feathery bodies
glide atop the stream, appear, then disappear,
travel in and through the dream.
Many petals unfold the ancient truth, death
her fertile field. Unnamed, I name her now.
The mystical tree where the heart -mind blooms. Animals come.
Rest upon her branches, nestle within her leaves, sing
a magical song, then ring tiny bells. Welcoming each new day.
A great tree is alive within the mountain, new seeds, once dormant,
turn toward the sun.
Written August 3rd, early dawn.