Free
Verse
gravity
The earth
has learned the virtue
of turning the other cheek,
of letting bygones be,
of being
slow to wrath.
Sure, she has
her bouts of temper,
her quakes and lava flows,
her pelts of bruising hail
and her roar
of whipping winds,
but when all is duly said,
when we've torn
her groves of hair
out from her crown
of muddied hills,
when her lungs
are filled with soot,
her pools of sight
with sludge,
she refuses
to let us go,
let us float
to cosmic realms
where we'd meet
our dying breath,
henceforth start
her time of healing.
Perhaps she simply needs
our presence,
the sound
of Celtic harps
within her caves,
the times
we're not so bad
and shower love
upon her babes,
the pups,
the kittens,
the brood
of a million birds
who soar like kites
on her many strings.
