The Earth Speaks in Poetry

The Earth speaks to me in Poetry.

First wind whooshes or wails the tone,

Supplying the air her foundation

For the poem to be blown round the globe.

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To accompany wind’s message, bees buzz,

Rhythm flowing down honey filled streams.

Determined, they dance out a meter

Delivered to turn brownest stems green.

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Soon the trees grow to forests of phrases.

Each time the sky reads them, she beams.

So enchanted, she beckons her nightlight,

Which so moved, conducts entire seas.

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But the rhyme scheme of earth is not constant,

For it rides on the back of the birds.

Trees hold out syllable branches

Birds fly higher, refusing to land.

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And the theme must get lost in translation.

Do pine trees have poor pronunciation?

Or so lulled by lazy human language,

Have my ears sought from truth liberation?

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Or perhaps theme is our contribution,

Giving meaning to nature’s great hum.

The earth, she supplies a blank page,

And I choose what poem it becomes.

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So when the wind changes mid stanza

And awakes my sorrow with a start,

I say earth is still speaking in poetry,

And poetry is always art.