Where Spruces Sing

Dod yn ôl at fy nghoed.

My head is a troubled place sometimes. Where ghosts and memories can inflict a lingering sting.

And society's constant clamor and cruelty often cause my ears to ring.

My eyes fail to find the horizon, and my tongue tastes and tells of unsavory things.

The soul grows weary in these spells, craving longingly for its winter’s relent to spring.

I’ll go to my places of solace and study the drooping boughs to which mosses cling.

And with a quieter spirit, feel Mother’s love and hear the Sitka spruces sing.

Comfort if not closure inevitably finds my mind, and merciful balance it will bring.

Without fail, Mother reveals and provides all I need, though in her timeless sapience, never everything.