What is a word?
A meaningful vibration. 
In the beginning was the word.
And the word was Creation.

Rock, air, fire, water,
oak leaves, ocean waves, 
tropical jungles, ocelots.
Gasps of ecstasy, groans of love.
We look into each other’s eyes
as we pass in the street,
we don’t say a word, but we 
understand the meaningful vibrations 
beyond words or before words,
both before and beyond words at the same time.
All living things, all nonliving things.
Music. Waterfalls. 
On this planet and beyond.
Flocks of small birds in the early morning. 
Crickets at dusk.
The gurgle of a baby. 
The voices in a singing brook.

What are words?
Meaningful vibrations. 
In the beginning was the word.
And the word was Creation.

We walk these slippery banks 
along the lake of our emergence,
the center pole of our forest,
our muddy port of entry into this world,
our origin of place, our place of origin.
We step from the lake into the place we belong.
Only briefly do we walk here today,
learning how to be indigenous,
these restless streets we pace
where our unborn great grandchildren play.

Breezes blow wavelets rolling toward the far shore,
while around us hushed fields of poppies grow,
and beneath our feet rocks melt 
and caverns of magma flow.
The uniforms, face shields, nightsticks
separating brother from daughter, sister from mother, 
do not separate illusion from delusion.
All truth is recreated each morning 
when a small bird peeks out of a nest
hidden in a lilac bush by the water’s edge.

To be able to walk here since the world began
is a gift of inexpressible joy. 
Who gets to claim 
this wild watery homeland as their own? 
Who gets to call it home?
Every place is the center of the world,
and everywhere is our place of origin.