Five Explorations of Earth

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Five Explorations of Earth


Close your eyes.

Can you feel it? Can you feel

the curve

of ground beneath

your feet, the forward arch

of this globe,


through space,

a ball strung up

by gravity, pivoting

on an eliptical course

around sun?



I love with the word — exuding

warmth, mineral rich and dark,

a summer soil ready for planting, for ripe new growth,

black with possibility, its soil heavy scent

of expectation — it sounds like home, somewhere

to take root, somewhere to roam


I am a murderer

of plant life, greenery

should flee from me. Trust no ficus

to my care. No violets, no ferns, no gardenias

can hope to survive. I accept

only vegetation that makes few demands, only

the most rugged of survivors. Best leave to me

the sharp and spiked cactus. We

will not be on friendly terms;

there will be no singing, no embraces;

but we may just shape a semi-

hostile coexistence.


Why are birth and death

so interconnected? The richest of soils

are full of rot, the ruins of old life

fed upon and recycled

by miniscule and wriggling creatures, devourers

of the dead — only in the presence of such

dark gestation can seeds germinate and unfurl,

only in the remnants of the death

can green shoots reach up for the light.


This small pinpoint, this little planet,

this earth, tethered to a central bright star

— not even the central of central stars —

just another star in a multitude of stars,

a multitude of stars swirling into a galaxy,

a spiral galaxy in a multitude of galaxies,

so small, barely a blip in all of creation

(and myself barely a stirring on its surface),

this world, this home is so large and so beautiful.


Note: This poem was inspired by a prompt offered by newpoet: "earth poetry"

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