Matka Boska Zielna
by Maja Trochimczyk

       ~ for Mother of God of the Herbs

Look at the greening hill slopes charred by last year’s wildfire—
that’s magic. Look at the mountain sunflower that grew
at the edge of the asphalt on Oro Vista road, it already blooms
out of nowhere—that’s magic, too. The postcard-size garden
by the old, wooden house, a shack, really—fills with flowers
every spring. Fruit appears on orange trees after bees collect pollen.

The scent of sweetness, the cheerful sound of bee wings—
is it not far more miraculous, a thousand, a million times
more delightful than the 100 floors of steel-metal-glass of
skyscrapers proudly pointing at the sky? Human quest for
glory—incomparable with nature’s miracles of renewal.

How proud we are of our empty metallic constructions
that will rust in the jungle, abandoned, like stone pyramids
of the Mayas, shrouded by vibrant green of leaves and
branches. Thousands of years of human fame obliterated
by the steady, living, fertile abundance, elan vital.
the overflowing force of life, of matter, our Mother—

Roots, shoots and tendrils spread out, germinate,
flow through the soil in search of water, nutrients,
life, more life, ever growing, ever richer, dancing,
singing the abundance of being—the song of
creation—we are—we are—we are—we are all—
we are one—one—one—


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