Wild Ginger
There are spirits dreaming
in these heart-shaped leaves:
You will find their little pitchers
blooming under the leaf mold,
preparing.
I cannot tell you when they first
nuzzled into their place on the soil,
but they are certainly our elders.
They are for brewing
with our whitest breath.
They are for nurturing a world
of eyes and skin on which
to see ourselves through.
They scent themselves
on the seasons, making
their oracular tongues
pungent with the smell
that is as yet only
possible sun.
If I lean my open hand
against their delicate stems,
I can feel their hum,
the coursing of that vein
in the wild things that
go their own way,
readying the tough sugar
that we live on.
In her retirement from teaching courses on worldviews, environmental values, and ecofeminism, Madronna Holden shares her love of the natural world through poetry. Read more.