Send me to walk Earth with healing feet,
turn my every stroll into a gentle massage;
guide me like you did when you made toddler-me
toddle on your back to get the knots out.
Do you see Earth’s knots?
The building tension between aching plates,
the sandy sorry lines s p l i t t i n g lands and seas,
the weight of the eight billion people it carries
don't you see?
Teach me about joy.
The way hummingbirds
flutter over fountains
or sip saccharine nectar.
They never wish for
longer wings or brighter feathers.
Prepare me to care for the plants you’ve rooted in our backyard and turn my trail of footsteps into constellations of flowers;
it’s only fair that the path blossoms for those behind me.
And hurry! The snap of a twig turns years into hours.
Tell me the stories your parents told you and those that theirs told them, because history doesn’t repeat, though I was told it rhymes.
Show me how to live off our land, so I may teach my children and they may teach theirs. Your healing hands turn time. Pieces align. I see knots start to unwind.
