Earth Song
In the brown and tan
she sits on the forest floor
pillowed by the fallen leaves.
Her soul grows silent as she listens
to the sounds in the forest.
The sky, her inverted ocean;
the clouds, her froth of waves.
The wind dances through her dark hair
like the delicate fingers of God.
As the sun warms her skin,
light filters through tree branches
laced together like intricate spider webs
too high to touch except in Spirit.
She does not notice the hour.
She has visions sweeter than oranges.
Janet Marie Bingham
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