Come to the stones,
Daughter of earthen eyes
And rose apple skin –

The babbling brooks of old
Wish to whisper you,
But they must first
Play in your hair,
Make your toes giggle,
And send a dragonfly
To kiss the end of your nose
Before the story can begin.

It must be history’d
In the long strands
Of your DNA
So your children will know
Our melody, deep.

And when you grow weary,
The roots of all trees
Shall wrap your shoulders
In moss until
Your legend is known
Across our Mother’s
Great crust.

Oh Child,
Of what import is data
Without the whippoorwills?

A voice may sing
A million combinations
Of zeros and ones,
And never know the heights
Of a single soaring vibrato.

Come to the stones,
Oh daughter’d daughters
Of all mothers,
For we cannot gift the aria
Until your souls have
Been immersed in our wisdom
Just one more generation.

03/01/2012