Notice how the earth
holds us to her,
as if she were jealous,
as though nothing eludes her,
as if we were her only love.
So it is, my love,
I hold you,
a flower coming from the improbable hardness
of the stone,
of the salts and quartz,
the sand laid like bracelets
on the shore,
coming up from the wet darkness,
the redolent mulch and decay.
So from earth,
from her wide soul,
her heart of nickel and iron,
and the endless train of nights
and dragon rides around the sun.
She holds us my love,
as I hold you,
from the dark remaking of my breath.
How do petals come from the cold?
How does earth cover us with rain,
and we grow as small vines,
reaching round and round
the lattice of life?
Entwined,
embracing,
until we flower in her wet face,
feeling her gray smile of clouds and wind.
And in the archipelago of life,
the islands of our years,
leave us unprepared
for the epiphany of each other.
How does love come from stone?
How hard the embrace of earth!
How gentle we are with each other.