I wonder whether it’s the leaves
That lose their trees,
Which remain stubbornly
Upright and still,
Even as leaves surrender
To a passing breeze,
The lessening of light,
The delicate needs of their host.

Midwives and doulas,
Weaving time
Backwards and forwards
Through ancestors and descendants,
A haunting, subtle wind inviting
The fullness of the universe
Into the moment of now.

We are meant for this time.
On the threshold of relational being.

To see.
To hear.
To feel.

Sacred patience.
Presence in life.
Medicine of community.
Sacredness of all beings.

I think it is true—
The leaves do lose their trees,
Wafting feather-light to the forest floor
To be returned to the soil,
Restored to whole.