Nature speaks in many languages.  It speaks in images, in sounds, in colors and textures; it speaks through movement and it speaks through stillness.  Nature offers it’s wisdom to every part of us, emerging into our senses, touching our minds and hearts.  And each of us touch this Earth back in our own perfectly unique ways.

This is why we need poetry, to illuminate the miracle of Nature’s unfolding, to translate her mysterious presence into the tones of the human heart, to integrate the transformative lessons she offers with grace.  Poetry is the medium through which we can immerse in the ancient tomes of Nature, held within our own hearts, and lean into the conversation of connection with the more-than-human world.   Enjoy, and feel free to send us some of your own favorites.

Please Call Me by my True Name

Do not say that I will depart tomorrow
because even today I still arrive
Look deeply: I arrive in every second
to be a bud on a spring branch
to be a tiny bird, with wings still so fragile
learning to sing in my new nest
to be a caterpillar in the heart of flower
to be a jewel hiding itself in stone
I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,
in order to fear and to hope,
the rhythm of my heart is the birth and death of all that are alive.
I am the mayfly metamorphosing on the surface of the river,
and I am the bird which, when spring comes, arrives in time to eat the mayfly.
I am the frog swimming happily in the clear water of the pond,
and I am also the grass-snake who,
approaching in silence, feeds itself on the frog.
I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,
my legs as thin as bamboo sticks,
and I am the arms merchant selling deadly weapons to Uganda.
I am the 12 year old girl, refugee on a small boat,
who throws herself into the ocean after being raped by a sea pirate,
and I am the pirate, my heart not yet capable of seeing and loving
I am a member of the politburo, with plenty of power in my hands,
and I am the man who has to pay his "debt of blood" to my people,
dying slowly in a forced labour camp.
My joy is like spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom in all walks of life.
My pain is like a river of tears, so full it fills up the four oceans.
Please call me by my true names,
so I can hear all my cries and my laughs at once,
so I can see that my joy and pain are one.
Please call me by my true names,
so I can wake up,
and so the door of my heart can be left open,
the door of compassion.

I Am Not I

 I am not I
            I am this one
walking beside me whom I do not see,
whom at times I manage to visit,
and whom at other times I forget;
who remains calm and silent while I talk,
and forgives, gently, when I hate,
who walks where I am not,
who will remain standing when I die.
-Juan Ramon Jimenez


Just
sit there right now
Don’t do a thing. Just rest.


For your
separation from God
is the hardest work in this world.


Let me bring you trays of food and something
that you like to
drink.


You can use my soft words
as a cushion
for your
head.


-Daniel Ladinksy

Such Singing in the Wild Branches

It was spring
and finally I heard him
among the first leaves—
then I saw him clutching the limb
in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still
and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness—
and that’s when it happened,
when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree—
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,
and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward
like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing—
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed
not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfectly blue sky— all, all of them
were singing.
And, of course, yes, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn’t last
for more than a few moments.
It’s one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,
is that, once you’ve been there,
you’re there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then— open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.

— Mary Oliver, “Such Singing in the Wild Branches”

When I am Wise

When I am wise in the speech of grass,
I forget the sound of words
and walk into the bottomland
and lie with my head on the ground
and listen to what grass tells me
about small places for wind to sing,
about the labor of insects,
about shadows dank with spice,
and the friendliness of weeds.

When I am wise in the dance of grass,
I forget the name and run
into the rippling bottomland
and lean against the silence which flows
out of the crumpled mountains
and rises through slick blades, pods,
wheat stems, and curly shoots,
and is carried by wind for miles
from my outstretched hands.

- Mary Gray

Mystery

I went to the forest in search of mystery
I crossed one river, and then the next, 
until I found a barren aspen grove
Quiet, stark naked yet without Spring leaves. 

My body knew in an instant what looked like many was one.
I could feel the white/black branches of the grove
Send themselves furiously upwards like bolts of lightning
Traveling the open blue/night sky.

And the wind thundered through the valley around me,
Whirling around the bodies of wild things, 
Gathering, and then bursting into pieces 
On the pine needles and willow twigs.

And the waters in the river kept churning, 
Whirling around invisible shapes 
Carrying away the edges of the mountain above
Smoothing and smashing the bed rocks of the Earth.

So I laid down within the land, and let it enter me  
Let it breathe and build inside me
Until my eyes no longer betrayed me. 
Until my heart released its name.
Until my body became the world. 
And waited there.   

Till we rose to walk a new path home.  

- Justin Michelson

Mind Wanting More

Only a beige slat of sun
above the horizon, like a shade
pulled not quite down. Otherwise,
clouds. Sea rippled here and
there. Birds reluctant to fly.
The mind wants a shaft of sun to
stir the grey porridge of clouds,
an osprey to stitch sea to sky
with its barred wings, some dramatic
music: a symphony, perhaps
a Chinese gong.
 
But the mind always
wants more than it has—
one more bright day of sun,
one more clear night in bed
with the moon; one more hour
to get the words right; one
more chance for the heart in hiding
to emerge from its thicket
in dried grasses—as if this quiet day
with its tentative light weren't enough,
as if joy weren't strewn all around.

- HOLLY J. HUGHES

Earth and Something Else

I am made of earth, and some other, unexplainable cause.
There are riverbeds etched in the palms of my hands,
maps of something greater than the span of one woman’s life.
This blood carries rainfall from the primeval forest,
while the drumming in my chest – which will one day cease to be –
pulses now…and now…and now…

This rare globe is a fertile egg in the nest of space,
saying yes to the infinite dream of generations
My body, this puzzle, these elements borrowed, say yes
to the mystery that birthed me:
This sweet, sweet earth and some other, unexplainable cause.

- Ruth Wren

When I Was The Forest

When I was the stream, when I was the
forest, when I was still the field
when I was every hoof, foot,
fin and wing, when I
was the sky itself,
 
no one ever asked me did I have a purpose, no one ever
wondered was there anything I might need,
for there was nothing
I could not love.
 
It was when I left all we once were that
the agony began, the fear and questions came,
and I wept, I wept. And tears
I had never known before.
 
So I returned to the river, I returned to
the mountains. I asked for their hand in marriage again,
I begged—I begged to wed every object and creature,
 
and when they accepted,
God was ever present in my arms.
And He did not say,
“Where have you
been?”
 
For then I knew my soul—every soul—
has always held
Him.

- Meister Eckhart

The Authentic Ground of Being

Have you ever taken a true break?
I mean, stepped fully out of yourself for a moment
Like when the river overflows onto it’s banks,
To discover the pores of the soil that purify it.
 
Have you ever drank in your breath like it was the purest water?
I mean, felt things as they always were, before your first inhale
Like when a seed finds the courage to open
Because it remembers the soil before touching it.
 
Or are you tangled up like the rest of us,
Hanging up in the air of your mind, with your feet dangling
50 ft above the ground of Being  
Without knowing how you got there?
 
Yes, we’re all tangled, that is, until we listen with all ears
Until we hear the saints that let go before us whisper “look down”,
Until we gain the courage to meet the fear of falling
with an even greater love.
 
But the secret is we can’t fall, even the saints never have
For as the grip of the last finger fails,
And the end comes frightfully near
The world simply stands still,
the Earth graciously opens up,
The Ground rises to meet our feet,
And we can feel our bare soles pressed delicately
against the ancient soil of our Being,
Remembering and discovering, at the same time.
 
Yes, the past is a deep echo carried in the bones of the mind
But with the right ears, we can trace the echo back
through the canyons of habit, to its ancient source within.
Sitting there, at the confluence of our worlds,
Offering ourselves the kindest of wishes
We come to long more deeply for the embrace
of what we could never know
Than the familiar sound of our own voice.  
 
And what then will become of us?
What becomes of our name and story?
But a sprout bursting upwards
an spontaneous act of creativity
Held in the arms of belonging,
Becoming a gift, and a home, once again
to all of life. 
 
- Justin Michelson

We Are of a Tribe

We plant seeds in the ground
And dreams in the sky,
 
Hoping that, someday, the roots of one
Will meet the upstretched limbs of the other.
 
It has not happened yet.
We share the sky, all of us, the whole world:
 
Together, we are a tribe of eyes that look upward,
Even as we stand on uncertain ground.
 
The earth beneath us moves, quiet and wild,
Its boundaries shifting, its muscles wavering.
 
The dream of sky is indifferent to all this,
Impervious to borders, fences, reservations.
 
The sky is our common home, the place we all live.
There we are in the world together.
 
The dream of sky requires no passport.
Blue will not be fenced. Blue will not be a crime.
 
Look up. Stay awhile. Let your breathing slow.
Know that you always have a home here.
 
- Alberto Rios

The Earth Says (after Hokusai Says)

The earth says
keep still
stay put & listen to the roar of silence
hold on & root deep for treasure
feel the sap rising through your bones
wait & see what happens

The river says
keep flowing
into the lochs swirling & swelling & swishing
keep floating down   down & down
falling & carving the mountains
down to the beautiful sea

The trees say
keep rooting
rooting & rising into sky –
spread out your arms to embrace everything
breathe deep   deeper with each falling leaf
gather fruit & nuts for winter

The sky says
keep looking
sniff the air & notice the small
changes moment by moment
breath by breath   cloud by cloud
watching your thoughts float by

The birds say
keep singing   sing from your heart
fly from branch to branch
stay curious   stay light   start fresh
each year with a new nest then be patient
& sit on your eggs till they hatch
The sun says
keep smiling
smile at your reflection on still water
from dawn to dusk go outside
out to play with light & shadow
in the day long dazzle leaping through thin air

The compost heap says
keep rotting
decomposing   turning   burning
digest everything that comes your way
keep returning to the earth
& the earth   returns   tenfold to you

the earth says keep still   stay put
wait & see what happens   next

- Larry Butler

Tender as the Mosses

Everything is a child.
All living beings, innocent as the day they were born
tender as the mosses 
vulnerable as the spring flower
playful as the fox cubs
 
Everything is a mother. 
All living beings, inescapably giving back to the cycle of life
kind as the sunlight 
fierce as the bear
ancient as the mountains.
 
None of us can lose our original wound
Knowing only its small separate world
weeping for wholeness.
 
And none of us can lose our original heart,
Loving all things in every direction
with its knowing smile.
 
Discover the child in every part of you.
Find the mother of every moment within.
Care for your ancient human confusion
 like your life depended on it
Because it does.
 
What's a 
A seed to the great Oak 
A boulder to a towering mountain
A raindrop to the endless ocean?
 
Every child a mother, every mother a child
tracing our lineage back to the whole.
 
- Justin Michelson