Sarah Rossiter

Imagine the shell you findon the beach, a large conch,half-buried, glistening inmorning light, waiting to belifted, rinsed, held cupped to your ear: This is your body,listen and hear; blood flows,pulse ticks, the ocean hums,waves curl, crest, hushed, foamlicks wet sand, thoughts rise, dissolve, wind . . . . Continue Reading »

Clear water on a Catskill stream spills,flowing down a smooth rock faceinto a pool shaped like a cup held withinhigh rounded walls. A Chinese painting,think of that, fine brush strokes formingfissured cracks from which green fernsunfurl lace while light falls featheredthrough new leaves as I stand, . . . . Continue Reading »

How to describe what can’t beseen, invisible, yet universal,what is, has been, will always be,the Endless One, the cosmic forcewithout which nothing would exist,formlessness creating form,the mountain etched on open sky,the music score of notes and rests,silence giving shape to sound, asdarkness . . . . Continue Reading »

Where I live drought desecrates,Heat scorches fields, crops wither,Wasted while elsewhere floodsDevour bridges to rip asunderFriend and family. Things fallApart. The parched earth cracks,The chasms widen to swallowWhole our fractured world. Here, before us, the abyss,Yet, if you can, imagine . . . . Continue Reading »

Now is the timeto be still and listen,This is the beginning,Help us to hear,Rooted and rising,The sound of the sea,A whisper, a murmur,Help us to beFluid and flowing,The womb of creation,Rising in water,Rooted in earth,The Sacred is risingIn time to give birth,Mother and daughterSister and . . . . Continue Reading »

Listeningto acorns fallfrom the oaksin the last lightof a late summerday to land out ofsight on the darkforest floor,I wonder howmany will findtheir way intothe soil to rootin secret, waitingfor spring to sendtimid tendrils intothe dangerous air.Not many, I suppose,life being what it is,though in a . . . . Continue Reading »

Without warning, they appear, eachcluster separate from the next, goldbeads strung on strands of grass,glowing on the darkest days beneaththe fringe of summer trees, though whoknows how, or where they came from?Yet faith, not knowledge, is the sourceof hope that each bright blossom bringsalong with . . . . Continue Reading »