Stories

(In Greek mythology, Calliope was the first born of the Nine Muses - the Goddess who bestowed the gift of storytelling, the oldest teaching/healing art we have. I wrote this poem as a homage to Her.)

Calliope speaks:
"I am first born. Sit here beside me and I will teach you the power of story."

"In the time of beginning…"
tiny root hairs sprout from my toes and grip fertile black soil
"In the time yet to come…"
at the tips of my fingers sway supple green branches
"In the time of now-between…"
between roots and branches, the trunk of my spine

The body remembers…
The bones remember…

Listen. Do you hear that sound?
It is not the sighing of wind in the forest.
It is the crying of people who have lost their stories.

There would always be time to remember
They said
There would always be time to dream
They said
There would always be time to walk beneath the trees
They said
Until it was too late.

The land withers and grows barren
The people wither and grow barren.
The stories are lost
And all around the desert grows.

Will anyone remember
How to dream the trees awake
Before it is too late forever?