The treasure of water in the air and in the green.
The gift unseen but felt in a breath when the lungs open fully to receive it, or upon thirsty skin awaiting reprieve from heat.
The plush forest rejoices when fire comes but does not catch, for moist plants are living instead of becoming kindling.
The soil remains in its place when the wind blows, and tiny creatures keep their homes.
Mycelium grow and cleanse the land, even from the poisons of man.
Water and air, sea and sky, meet in mist to soothe our eyes rendered so dry in the desert of our wandering.
All the pondering we become in search of home and belonging when we run from place to place.
Seeking refuge in the sun and light, only to find it burns our faces and breathing is hard at such great heights.
Our rest will come in the gift of half-light: the liminal spaces who call from the traces of legends past of when magic was here.
Everyone thought it disappeared because it got very quiet when it went into hiding.
But the secret gardens remain and celebrate the rains and storms who give them proper forms to grow into.
Ripe with juices and plumes for signs seen by those with blooming eyes and hearts for the quest: to find the magic still left on Earth.
The ones who know how to love Her in their essence, who call her Mother and receive her blessings.
Who know their duty to reciprocate the grace in the waters of life who give breath to the forests, color to the shores, and a glow to our horizons.
Indeed, the keepers shall come: the daughters and sons of the lands, skies, and seas.
The tenders of dreams
that dreamers may survive,
and magic may thrive in all
the hearts of the innocent
who heed the Garden’s call.
Copyright © Sheyorah Naify, 2021
I’m a soul in transit, documenting the inner and outer terrain, often through poetry and prose, sometimes through songs, and occasionally through photos, essays, confessionals, and other mediums. This is how I breathe.
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