For we the Dear Departing,

there’s no time like the present

to wake ourselves from the walking dead

push away the polluted earth

from around our shuffling corpses,

and be born again into innocence

as true children of the Mother.

No better time to exit

coffins of our own making,

fashioned from forest kills

clear-cut for progress—

trimming the fat of nature

to grease the palms of man.

We despoil the air

in an air of insouciance,

wearing our cool like a car ad cliche

as we shift smoothly into high gear,

internal combusting carbon-mono

and carbon-dio – xides

into breathless

zero-to-sixty asphyxiation.

Not the “good day to die”

the Cheyenne and Lakota rallied to

in defending their way of life.

Theirs was a cry for preservation,

for the right to “walk in beauty,”

the poeticizing of the Dineh

for cherishing Mother Earth’s majesty,

celebrating her life-giving essence

relishing her sights and sounds,

her scents and vibrations.

No time like the present,

O Dear Departing,

to walk the earth softly

like a gentle drizzle

praying life into every blade of grass,

pitter-patter … pitter-patter;

invoking life into every flower,

drip drop … drip drop… drip drop,

that all may be quenched and replenished.

Born of wind and seed

water and soil and sun,

each springing forth of life

is a child born of Mother,

born of her nature

born of herself.

Mother raises each life

in the ways of the One Life

in the duality of the One-ality:

The female rain shows tenderness

The male rain shows strength—

the mother-father gathering of life

until the last breath, the last exhale

of nature’s glory.

At that final expiration,

Mother lays her progeny to rest …

Keens a death song and slips into silence

for the journey to the ancestors

Wipes her tears,

inhales the spirit vitals for a new life …

Gives birth and is reborn herself

into a new self-reflection.

To not see ourselves

in that washing in and out of sacred life

is the agony of Mother

Her pain of giving birth nothing

like the losing of our way—

busied with doing but empty of being;

denatured of our nature,

we trample down hers—

every vestige of hallowed ground

and plain, stream and river,

mountain valley and canyon—

taking life for granted

and Mother as hostage.

All within our purview—property

to develop, to extract from

to harness, control, and sacrifice.

The degradation we wreak upon Mother,

we wreak upon ourselves.

Matricide is suicide.

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Excerpt From: Carl Hitchens. “Thinning of the Veils.”

Author Reading: https://duende.bandcamp.com/track/carl-the-dear-departing 

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