Earth Song

A mound of soil filters

through her long, lithe fingers.

Dust clouds sparkle

with tiny jewels.

Lemon-yellow sky cloaks

the Earth, incognito and blind.

What remains proves the victor

over space, time and light.

O to see the world as it is,

beyond this fragile veil.

I smooth the stream but feel nothing.

Carp cluster beneath soothing stones.

Blake opened the doors of perception.

Huxley drew their treasure map.

Walk toward wonder, spot the forest

in the wavering branch. All things sing.

I clasp her hand, black with dirt. She

wipes it on her jeans. A faint tattoo

blossoms. We must carry the stain

of global neglect. The warming stigmata.

The crucible of the future rose long ago.

Now we patch up the mottled past. The Holy

shadows hills in search of an earthly

epiphany. Fields yield broken harvests.

Crows caw in sycamore trees, planted

firmly against the wind. They scatter gossip

as far as the sun, never stopping to second-guess.

They follow their nature unconditionally.

We grovel in the grass to deconstruct duplicity,

the great gap of self-consciousness. I pick

an idle strand of wheat, crush its head,

sprinkle grain at my feet. It will die in soil,

only to live again, only to polish the jewels

of dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Everlasting song.