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.


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The Moss Knows These Things

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Milkweed Pod: A Still Life