Sometimes Weary Warriors Lay Down their Swords

Sometimes weary warriors
lay their swords down ,
and mothers with dry, worn out hands,
cracked and bleeding,
come in from the cold,
and put their feet up on the hearth.

Sometimes old village doctors still come,
to your house to check on sick children,
and place their hands upon young foreheads,
to check for fever and illness.

They pull ancient potions,
from worn-in old bags,
and offer kind words,
in the hushed tones of dark rooms,
and soothe young mothers ,
who know not of childhood illnesses and uneasiness.

They’ll ramble down the twisty path,
from the house,
and you’ll be grateful for old ways,
and the kindness and wisdom that comes,
from a life well lived.


Sometimes life is a circus ,
sometimes days drag on,
as if night will never come,
to wrap its dark cloak around to you ,
to sooth the weariness out of long working days,
and too much talking.

Sometimes the sun rushes to greet you,
and applauds your arrival,
to the glorious play about to begin.

Sometimes the sunrise hides himself,
in gloomy old memories ,
of childhood tears spilling on to the curb,
from a kickball game,
with too many captains.

Sometimes it feels like,
we can take in everything,
become full! Overflow! Pass it around!
Sometimes winter stream-beds dry up ,
and wail in longing to drink,
from spring rains and cool melting snow.


The trees! Oh, the trees! They always remember!
Stand tall noble knights! Perfect your gaze!
She will bring it all around to you again…
as She always does,
since time started to tick.


They will tell you - the trees,  of all the old stories,
when birds laughed in their branches ,
and they bowed to the sun.

They will tell you the times,
the carrots got rotten,
and small little chipmunks ate,
all of the berries.

They will tell you of blooms,
that pull breath from your lungs,
and of oceans of lavender that drift in breeze,
as they wave their thin arms at the sky.

They will tell you the times,
of the birth and the death,
and of all the cycles and circles,
that roam under your feet and over your head.

They will call you to stillness,
to a deep quiet place,
so you can watch and bear witness to all that will be.

They will tell you to sit a while,
take a rest from your running.

“Come hither, come yonder, I’ve branches for you!
I’ve roots for deep sleeping and leaves for the shade!
Worry not your small mind for all will be well.
Rest here, by my trunk and take in the show.

It will rain and get cold,
then sunny again!
You’ll see it all…become real, like one of the forest.

And then you will know without hesitation,
you are safe beyond safety,
forever to live,
with those who have held ,
the ground for you all this time.