Choir of Ancients

My hands speak to the sky.

The sky sees my hands as swallows,

lifting me in forget-me-not


I will press the birds of my hands

into holy Earth when she whispers

“Share your burdens.”

My throat will send my voice

to the Choir of Ancients, where we will sing,

big as Love.

Our Song — flower and falcon,

newt and fruit and sky and I,

are blessing all the world

right this very instant, and you,

just sitting there, you!

are a vital part of this


 J. Pratt-Walter, © 8/5/201


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