We are flowers, reaching, reaching, napping in the September sun, warming our skin, unwilling to say good-bye. How many more days before it has travelled too far south to impart even an ounce of warmth?
We are the moon, hanging orange and low and pregnant, keeping quiet company in the dark, waiting for birth, for daylight, whispering that you were conceived in love and brightly shining hope.
We are the wind, invisible, lonely, unable to stay in one place, unaware of our power, at times troubling, at others soothing, at others yet fanning the coals of a cooling fire.
We are cloud and rain, watering and cooling, then pooling back into ourselves.
We are bright bursts of electricity and light; we are loud unsettling rumbles of thunder. We are weeping willows and whispering pines; we are raging hurricanes and crushing surf.
We are, you and I in turn, the grandeur of the Rockies, the mysterious depths of the sea, the solid chest to lean on, the child needing to lean. We are the earth, ready to nourish, and shelter, to offer a place for life to take root, sprout, and yield fruit and beauty.
We are in turn hungry and impoverished, thankful for the milk of another, then full and generous, ready to give and forgive in measure greater than we have been given.
We are our mothers and fathers, optimistic and in love, burdened and splintered. We have our mother’s eyes, our father’s smile, her intuition, his power; we carry at our centre the power to breathe new life into the flickering flame yet again.