With the most gentle breath, the Earth wakes,
Slowly rolling and stretching;
Pulling back the night's curtain to reveal the
Rich treasures left yesterday in heaps and
Such tangible rises and waves of colour
Bending around each other through cities,
And along like fingers working through forests and grasses;
Proper domain of creatures,
Quick and diligent.
And sometimes there is envy;
Curious of the solace, the comfort in
Any tree, or
Any river curling without a
Stutter or any sign of the struggle to
Know, or overcome.
The measured simmering from one season to the next;
Leaves grow or change,
Water cools or warms,
And the creatures ready without fuss.
It is in this dependable setting that she rises, each day,
Uniquely conflicted and unsure,
Charged intrinsically with the task of finding the
Deep, soothing connections,
Balm to the scrapes and wounds suffered in their belief.
Through seasons and landscapes she navigates and
Wonders why the task is so specific.
Why not everyone a perfect fit?
A tree is a tree; it merely grows.
A person, of tempo and pulse, is cursed with the
Stutters and struggles of
All that she knows, and
All that she must overcome,
Manifesting any myriad of tones of the Earth:
Delight or challenge, as in the
River's swiftness, or the meadow's rise.
Brilliance or frailty, as in any manner of
Accepting or fearing change.
And, either an almost
Frothing, tripping desire to set out upon each waking,
Or a tunneling retreat from the reveal, if, in the flow to present,
The travail has left a timid, brittle shell threatened mortally by any
Vigor or thrill.
The trick; to stay mindful of the breath of the Earth, and to
Without a doubt, the
Sincerity and intent at work to guide her, eventually into the most
Tender and passionate arms;
Bending, shattering ecstasy,
Easily trumping, by leagues, any memory or tendency to anything
There is no reason,
For any breath,
Any rolling or stretching
To any effort at all
Towards a lesser aim.