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  • Carolin Rechberg

The Call of the Earth

Origins of scent,

in my garden.

Tantalizing the swaying breeze,

rustling in the leaves of walnut, willow, palm, plum, magnolia and bamboo trees.

The calls of birds,

hawks to hummingbirds.

Rhythms of fanning wings, melodic to the heartbeat of the graspable spring's quiete gurgling nurture.

The shadows of the night still breathing a cooling kiss before the coming heat of the day.

The smells crisp,

some dormant waking up from the sun.

Sung alive in ancient patterns,

nature's melodies, woven in the dance of birth and decay.

Layers intermingling, versatile varying volumes of cells threading crescendos for the senses.

Ebbs and flows tracing the tread.

Murmurs, choruses of calls,

elements speaking, to the fruits from the seeds we are reaping.

The echo of the flora and fauna,

the cradle to the footstep seen in the micro to the macro,

of the transcendent surrounding,

a reflection.

At peace,

prospering in hope and in spite of philosophical wars polluting the worth of our world.

Just listening and responding

With the call of the earth.

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