Our Mother Tongue

Ancient groves o' reads and riddle's, aye, 'mong twigs are written round...the ogham tongue o' mother nature's own cantation found.

For, how we walk in woods, beholden stones, each strand o' filament'd spider web, we spy...where , every brand on weather'd bark...each rough design, her work, our singing mothers song...with all respect, we do identify.

She, on soughing wind, a sigh, amid her forestry...and there, within her meadow's, lay her 'mowing devils' down, where walk, will we...amid her maze of graceful poetry.

I, Sow...


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: crop circle design, google pic