By Mike O’Connell

earth, wise as she is,
whistles, bangs, screams and moans,
entertaining the winds on their way
to whatever ears are tuned to hear her
more subtle songs, whispering
in the grass, rushing over the waves.
she plays roughly with us, spilling,
spitting, distilling evil with calamities
laced with thunder, and the splitting
of her skull. still, she says nothing.
she tolerates the relationship,
because this, too, shall pass.
she knows we will use her up,
(paying little attention to her pain),
and leave her, temporarily listing
in a cosmic coma, waiting for us
to pass so she may become reborn,
come to flourish, filling her fate
with wonderful things, nurturing
those spirits that always treated her
as the ultimate deity, and wrapped
her soul around them, holding her
close, close enough to see starlight
in the stones.