A spring dusk settles. I step outside.
The earth sighs as I place
a dish of mealworms on the grass:
a tiny offering to wild creatures
who dwell in my tamed garden.
In an old autumn leaf-pile hedgehogs uncurl,
spines bristling with secrets of evolution. I wait.
They emerge from shadows, noses twitching,
eyes of obsidian. “Bon appétit,” I whisper.
Do they understand me?
Do they understand the urgency of our times?
Can they sense the shifting weather, unravelling seasons?
Are they, untamed, attuned to the pulse of the planet –
the groan of melting glaciers, the crack of blazing forests,
the roar of oceans rising?
Our era looms heavy. We are navigating
a world in flux, changing faster and faster.
We architects of progress and power have paved meadows,
turned streams into sewers and silenced the songbirds.
We have forgotten the ancient pact between soil and soul.
Yet here, in this moment, amidst the rustle of leaves,
as the stars creep west, there remains a sense of normal,
a flicker of hope in darkness. These wild things remind me
of the strength of connection, compassion, care.
I watch them eat, and wonder what my grandsons’ future holds.
AJS March 2024
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