She is waking us up, her children gone astray. Flew when we should’ve walked, drove when we should’ve run, and imagined when we should have known. She is waking us up, her children run amok. Might she bring her wrath at our defiling the water, land and sky? Might she come now at our unwitting behest? Could she be not angry, but sad? Have we drained our last prayer skyward? Beneath our trudging she holds. Above our heads she cries. Atop her eternal Love we’ll die. She’ll not wait nor tarry long with creation’s instinct. Predator, slip, boom, then… © 2011 by mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)