Through with the big corporation.
Through with the nation-state.
Through with the global church, the world guru.
Ready to return and taste the sparkling
renaissance of the small and the local.
No left or right: the center, yes,
but without circumference.
Better to barter a bushel of peas
for a well-honed axe handle,
graze my sheep in the commons
with yours, the sacred pasture
at the heart of every village.
Our little farms touching in one meadow,
we’ll send bees back and forth in a country
with no border but the stars.
No minarets and spires, but treetops,
Raven Mother perched in one,
Eagle Father in another, calling us
to lauds and evensong.
Shamanic circles, bio-regional theologies.
Eight billion gods, each with a human body.
And one ancestral bonfire
to change the bones of the dead into the sky.
I will dance like a flame in your kiln,
you like a pear on my table.
Let there be drums in the ancient forest
filled with the rhythm of our roots.
Every house a temple, every child a priest,
every leaf an offering, every word a prayer.
And so in each shall be increased
the mystery that is everywhere.
Art: Wallstreet by Andree Wallind
Art: Wallstreet by Andree Wallind
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