by Margaret J. Hoehn

They say the way you listen to the
earth breathe at night can change
everything: each pebble has its own

small story to tell, every leaf whispers
its own simple name, and even silence
can find its mouth. And this hour has

altered its course because you walked
alone in the darkened fields behind
the house, and listening hard, fell

deeply through the scent of grass and
soil, into your life. They say that
when you accept such a gift from the

earth, sometimes the wind will spin
a parable made from broken things;
or a hairline crack just starting to

form across the northern sky, still faint
as a fox's track on snow, might mend
itself; or someone who has been sitting

in the dust and twigs could stand again.
And it's true that in the hour you listened
hard between the grass and stars, you

were stunned with the passion of the
newly saved. Newly risen, you were
burning to the ground with moonlight.