How the Land Talks How the Land Talks

[Larry Robinson]

How the Land Talks
I am the Keeper of the Mysteries.
What I know is only understood in the imaginal realms, hence I often keep still.
I know why the seasons turn and how truth is not fathomed in clean, neat prose.
I have held the mysteries in myself. I contain multitudes.
I embrace opposites.
I am formed from paradox.
I rein in the mysteries.
Life, death, and rebirth are the steps of my dance.
Metaphor is my landscape.
I am the vast canvas maintaining the space where beings offer themselves to each other.
I clasp all the dry trees of my chaparral savannah in its red, crusty soil.
Madrone and manzanita ruled among knob cone pine, luxurious in youth, scraggly with age.
The tan oaks scatter acorns all over the rolling hills.
Under me is where the deep water flows. It is hard water, packed with minerals.
I am the One whose forms receive the fire and rain, the earthquake and plague.
My depths take in ash pits, smoldering leaves, and embers falling from the forest’s canopy.
I am the One who charts the Great Migrations.
I open with the Sun, who radiates on the trees of life the beauty that captivates all beings.
I am the One whose meadows uphold slender legs adorned with golden brown skin.
My canyons carry paws that slink silently, echoing the limestone’s stark face.
I am the One whose duff is stampeded with others, close, connected in my sweet, dusty face.
My ridges hold a travel that goes farther than humans could ever understand.

	- Patria Brown


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