A Voice for the Voiceless

Who speaks for the fox
when the forest is gone,
when the hum of the chainsaw
drowns her dawn?

Who mourns for the sparrow
when the branches are bare,
when the sky fills with smoke
and the wind forgets care?

We take and we build,
we pave and we sow,
then curse at the deer
with nowhere to go.

We frown at the raccoon
who rummages near,
forgetting his home
once stood right here.

The river grows weary,
her song running thin,
her fish have grown restless
beneath the din.

When grass is replaced
by cinder and steel,
who will remain
to help nature heal?

Listen, dear friends—
the wild is pleading,
its heart grows faint,
its spirit bleeding.

So plant where you can,
and leave what you may,
let clover and thistle
have room to stay.

But still she whispers
in root and in rain,
“Come tend to my heart,
and I’ll bloom again.”

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Offer whatever name you wish to be known by at the hearth today — real or imagined — we look forward to welcoming your words into the circle.