Powers of Place


The Earth

was shaped

like a steeple,

a peaked

 conical mound 

rose up out of

a rolling field.

A circle of round stones

painted gray green

by tenacious lichen

graced the crest

of the hill.

Young trees 

were rooted

scattered here

and there…

Peace permeated 

 Powers of Place,

And I breathed in

 Mystery – my story

while gathering


at my feet.


When I picked

the cracked shells

I remembered

the little oak

 I grew 

last summer, 

smothered under

piles of winter slash

 that were thrown

over his head.

I hate the idea of


a tender seedling.

 Beginnings of

all kinds must

be deeply held.

I’ll try again

with these

who told time

 by March winds

and the sun’s

intense heat,

 splitting husks

a month early,

obliterating the old clock,

no longer a measure

of seasonal turnings.

 (Viburnum unfurls

 its leaves too,

and Celadine

 is spraying

 sage green).

Pocketing a few

I was mindful

of Roots,

 pure white

specks peeking

out of splits,


 brown casings 

containing all


needed for Life –

An Oak Tree “field”


  form emerges


“Original Instructions”.

How astonishing!


 a splendid tree

with a canopy of

leafy hands

will offer

 her acorns

as a gift…

I soaked the seeds

in the dark.

Two days later

I planted all seven,


them in white

 cloth, dampened 

 under the seed moon’s

 pearl ripened light. 

Roots will

 burrow deep.

It will be weeks

before I meet tiny

pale green shoots,

 to rejoice with, 

weaving the three-

Seeds, me, and

 Powers of Place,

 into One



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