Christiana Aro-Harle

Käärmeet pienillä kielillään

nuolivat minun korvani 

että minä kuulen taas 

maailman äänet 

Pyhäiset ovat marjat pihlajissa.

– Pentti Saarikoski, Tanssilattia vuorella 1977

Snakes with their small tongues

licked my ears

that I can hear again

world sounds

Saints are berries in rowan.

– Pentti Saarikoski, Dance floor on themountain in 1977

Rowan. She is in red rivulets of beads decorating Sky and Earth. I see you below and above. Waiting. Perhaps for Bird. 

Perhaps for Hoof. 

Perhaps for Human boot. Perhaps for Wind. 

Perhaps for a Covering of Leaves. 

Perhaps deep into a Moss blanket. 

Waiting. She is the border boundary tree. Protecting and Giving. She is sustenance during winter with her bright ones hanging from her limbs. We had a huge old Rowan here. Her waist the hands could not reach around and touch. Her leaves were spotty and short, curled. Her branches stunted at the tips. She had bald spots. At her touching Earth place there were large fungi around her bottom as if some Mother Earth’s Death Face’s teeth were gobbling her up. We arrived in time to be with her as she was lowered down to Mother Earth. I still feel sorrow for that day. Such an old one gave birth to wood for Fire Ceremony, cutting boards and cooking tools, wheeled plant tables, and formidable bug homes as almost all her core was hollowed out. She lives on. Changed. We are more like her perhaps than she like us (why does everything have to be centred around us humans?).