Book of Eucalypt

Rooted in Place
(c) Book of Eucalypt, 2025.

Beneath the canopy as I lie,
light breaks into beams;
a river of gold pierce
through the ribs of the oak.
The ground remembers every step, and
every voice that sang here before.

The early risen crescent moon
framed in the branches of time,
decorated with the
new buds of Spring.
It waits,
listening with us
to the breath of the trees.

The flowers bow as
their pale faces are touched
by the setting sun.
They speak in whispers
carried through the air by
kisses of the gentle breeze;
in words older than names,
softer than prayers.

As we lay the roots of our soul
connects,
intwines,
deep within our the earth mother
our DNA remembers.
The Ancestors are not gone.
They rise with the wind,
rest in the bark,
wait in the hush
between birdsong and dusk.

To listen is to belong.
To belong is to remember:
we are not apart,
we are part:
leaf, stone,
petal, sky,
root and flame of sun.