Ode to Gaia
Divine is she who tends the garden
of our Earthy mother, whose bosom
lends a supple perch for darkened
fruits, ripe enough to seed blossoms
upon the nourished soil her toes pace.
Upon her bountiful breast rest
a bushel of golden wheat, carried
with the utmost care, like a babe prest
upon his mother’s heart to be cherished
until the time he’s age enough to grow
alone. Gaia, their young mouths press
to the soggy soil your hands till
and care for. Here, they are refreshed
in your shadow– their roots sit still
for you, who intimately lives with rain.