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