Nimaamaa-aki

My mother is not the woman who brought me into the world, bloody and screaming,

But rather she is the soft breath wafting in the air,

she is the ball of fire that has bathed me as I basked in her warm, vibrant gaze.

I hear the steady beat of her heart, given a voice by leather drums.

I feel her tears, her cleansing blood, as I dance in the falling rain.

I braid her hair, sweet and fragrant as it is the tickling grass.

She sings to me in low tones, in the thunder, rolling and rumbling.

She laughs in the voices of the birds, cackles and whistles that flitter in the air.

Her smile, the stars, guiding wayward children home.

The ocean, the water of her womb, cradling our sisters in the deep.

I till the soil that is her flesh, breaking the roots, her bones, to give new life.

I thank her for her generous bounty.

I pluck her hair, wildflowers, to decorate my own locks.

I whisper my dreams to the blue flower moon, as it is her slow blinking eye.

She gave me my brothers;

The wolf who sings to her loveliness each night,

The hawk that chases the voices of her laugh,

The clashing lightning that accompanies her songs.

She gave me my sisters:

the puma that drinks from her veins, the river.

the deer that nourishes our kin,

the river, changing her tune with our mother's mood.

My mother has many names, given by many clusters of her children:

Gaia,

Terra,

Pachamama,

Danu,

Jord,

Nimaamaa-Aki.

names, that she wears as she tends, names that all mean Earth,

She is beside me, listening to my songs.

She is beside you, watching you grow.

She is around us, comforting us from the harshest storms.

She is our one true Mother.

She is holding our future in her smile,

guarding our past in her bones.

She gave us her blood, to drink

She gave us her flesh to eat,

She asks for nothing, giving herself to us.

Yet we take from her.

We take, we pillage, we take some more,

devouring the wealth she creates.

And when she weeps, she weeps tears full of poison;

Smog and acid taking place over the sweetened rain.

Her once lush hair, brittle from unwanted heat.

the sheltering womb, laced with toxin and refuse.

Can you hear it now?

Her crying? Her pained moans?

She gave us so much

So shouldn't we give on back to her?

Shouldn't we clean her rivers?

Replant her hair?

Re-sweeten her tears? Her blood?

Isn't our turn...

to take care of her?