by Roz Bound
Spring falls into summer on a bluebell memory like veils drift beyond a bride, or stars born from fireworks spill from the sky, and babies slither into waiting hands, gulp air, remembering watery journeys. Spring falls into summer when seagulls teach their young to fly, children learn to swim, sheep show their lambs how to forage, survive alone, while swallows spiral into nests behind wisteria tear-drops on the wall. Spring falls into summer with cacophony of boats and cars and mowers, day crowds laughing, arguing, yelling, crying, but in the silence of green-muted woods spring falls into summer with a sigh. As fresh grows faded, dawn chorus hides in summer noise, and sunburned cheeks begin to feel a night time chill. When blossoms fall, gently bruised and dying under busy feet, We dare to look ahead and already mourn the loss of light.
Healer, writer, teacher, priestess and crone, Roz Bound nurtures writers in their transformational process, facilitating writing courses and monthly Open floor Readings in her island home in Ontario. She leads public rituals celebrating Mother Earth and offers meditation circles and labyrinth walks. Roz has two poetry books in print, Spirit of Lyme and The Fireman’s Child, and she recently completed her D. Min. in Wisdom Spiritualities, writing a dissertation on Aging Consciously, Dying Awake.