We don’t hear. We don’t listen.

If every leaf were a prayer,
the world would sound
like a rustling of praise –
a fierce, joyful rustling –

the wind would spill love
from every tree –
love would grow new
every spring.

Each tree would be
a book, a tome,
reminding us of how

this mothering earth
nurtures us all.

The fields would murmur
the story of life,
the hedgerows would blossom
in psalms and ragas, chants –

the sky would be full of music,
words of praise would float
down every stream
down every river

we would be nourished
by words of love

a poem for Sherry at earthweal

13 thoughts on “We don’t hear. We don’t listen.

  1. This poem sinks into my grateful heart like balm. If every leaf were a prayer…..how absolutely beautiful. Thanks, Sarah, for this gorgeous poem.


  2. This poem has such rich imagery, and such a wonderful concept. I particularly like,
    ‘the hedgerows would blossom
    in psalms and ragas, chants –’
    Sherry is absolutely right when she writes of balm for the heart.


  3. There is such a measured cadence to this it sounds like a ritual. I would like to be under that tree where love spills, and hear how “..the hedgerows would blossom/in psalms and ragas..” and because you wrote this, I have.


  4. I’ll go with Hedgewitch and praise the cadence too, a breath requiring scant metrics and letting what is do the singing. You strolling vista’s riches unlock to the attentive heart and for the needful eye.


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