The outcast lay in the autumn rain

Art - Brian Nunes, The Worldtree, 2016

The outcast lay in the autumn rain,
        sodden with her constant pain,
shivering with the fire spent,
          doubting she could kindle it. 

Traumas racked her lying there
          amid her cinders in despair,
resurrecting every ill 
          afresh as if they batter still. 

Minus reason to believe
          her life would bring her anything 
but utter grief and suffering,
          she sank into a gloomy sleep. 

Lying with the living earth
          along her length, she rode a surge
that astrally connected her
          in counsel with her ancestors. 

In the dream, she was a budding
          leaf upon an ancient tree
in Africa, rooted fast
          10,000 generations back. 

Loving flowed right up the trunk
          to lift her up from where she’d sunk,
branch to limb to twig to her,
          she blossomed high above the earth! 

Every mother gave her grace, 
          sisters eased her graven face,
fathers offered strong embraces
          that had been till then replaced with
                    expectations 
                    disappointment
                    criticism
                    narcissism 
                    shaming 
                    blaming 
                    absence 
                    distance
                    disrespect and 
                    disregard.  

As she bloomed and stretched and spread 
          she sensed a different flow instead…
sensed the dread and trepidation
          from the prior generations. 

Felt each trauma, every fear
          across 200,000 years
 that lingered with them unresolved,
          in the astral, unabsolved. 

Then, she hazily awakened
          to a graze across her face,
and opened up her eyes to see,
          a fallen 
                   autumn 
               umber 
                       leaf. 

Smiling as she stretched to rise,
          she kept the leaf as a reminder
she did not choose out tonight;
          she stayed instead to set it right. 

Lee DeNoya - Atlanta 2021

Previous
Previous

I sense the calling promise

Next
Next

Are we puppeteers or puppets here