there is joy here
in my hand
a hand fully soiled
by the living earth, which offers me her story.
her happiness is the old soul's happiness
glad to recount
her eyes closed, breast drawn back in breaths,
the story of her time here,
amongst the old stars.
she lies down to watch their burning
but they squint to see life they know is her's
her forests, her oceans
her infant peoples, contemplative and free.
i can smell exploration in the dirt
roots that wander away from themselves, down
into dark frontiers.
and behind them, in the dirt, they leave their joy.
denying death its conquest,
frustrating its empire
lover earth flush in life-making,
joy stains her body, celebrating life which ends,
that object of the heavens' jealousy,
as requisite to life which begins.
and so there is joy here,
in my hands and everywhere.
and i sit, silenced, and love to watch it.
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