The Nape of the Earth

The secret I forget

is taking baby steps tapping through my chest

these little feet will fuse with mine

and then I will remember:

my name is carved deep beneath the earth

engraved by the Great Breather’s breath

into the rock of a small nook, warm and dark;

there, minerals birth from rock oceans,

as mineral from the name, so soil from the mineral

and with the puff of breath

here they are–

the beat of blood and water,

human and creature and every green thing,

they listen and they curve and kerb

to accept each other’s gifts,

they transfigure them, return them

and are given them again;

we hum as one,

remembering the triad heart of the Great Breather

three squeezes, one pulse,

receiving and releasing and receiving

and releasing and receiving and releasing

the harmonising stream of the everlasting first hum.

The soil is soft and hums in waiting,

the soil is always ready to open,

to release or receive.

I walk tinily upon earth’s exposed nape;

she offers this tender vale

where the forests meet the fields

and she does not tremble

for my hands are soft and hum in doing,

my hands are always ready to open

to release or receive.

An ever-ripe earth’s horizon

is the curve of the broadest smile

and sky is the hand that cups her chin

with gentle glee;

so I will cup the soil in my hands

and remember my name assembled in the grains

as they remember the rock from which they birthed

soil meets breath,

labour meets mercy,

mercy brings life,

in tiny steps.