Gaia knocks at the window.
I sit at my desk and stare into a screen of
chicken scratch letters on a snowy field.
The keys feel like river pebbles rubbed smooth from eons of erosion.
Beside me is a maple bowl turned by a local craftsman which holds my crystals —
Tree agate, Bloodstone, Selenite, Snowflake Obsidian,
Labradorite, Carnelian, Sodalite —
the vibrations of a million years of terrestrial pressure collecting dust while I
focus on work that will be forgotten tomorrow.
I rub my hand across the laminated desk top and yearn for wood.
I will get no splinters tonight.
I have not seen the moon and could not tell you if it is
full or new, waxing or waning.
Knowing that would have been the work of my ancestors,
those noble souls who built Stonehenge
and sang songs to Brighid
and marked their bodies with triple spirals
to honor maiden, mother, crone.
I sit at my desk, my back to the window,
and click-clack the chicken scratch.
Gaia knocks with a ping on the glass.
I respond without looking,
“We need the rain.”