Gaia Stirring

 

  Then, I will weep the breath of my last ancestor Tried. 

In my palms, the catch of this depth, raining the oceans and floods. 

Torn out of me, peace replaced by mourning. 

  I will seep of it, 

Rank of fires, unamassing 

  oh a great mourning and reaping; 

To love so fiercely this earth, and her body, 

  Never apart from me.  Mourning and waxing in tides 

       In pools 

       In wells of black undertow

Voids given over as cosmic proportions of self. 

 Anxious. Ever Gestating. 

  Everything toils to grow. 

It is the bitter frost bitten death 

   Pinned in likeness to Summer char. 

It is the Spring. 

  It is, the Autumn. In brown timelines of draped hair 

and ravaging leaves 

  In a ceaseless wind. 

  Anxious. Gut envy dropped and relegated to the motion pit of man. Empathic. 

  Churning over what is, 

  What was, 

What has been. 

  Body, apart of Her breath. She is no part from me. 

Rather we are. And I feel her, Great Mother Spirit, 

 as myself. 

Nature resting in oscillating beams. 

  Tears of mourning.

Tides of Rapture. 

  Anxious. 

  Also, truly anxious 

Underneathe.  Like a buzz of disaster upon the horizon.

Like a vision we wish we did never see. 

  Ruptured in melodramas 

Beneath a tinkering core.  

  When Gaia...

    Has butterflies fluttering and stored...

What...

   And what then...

Is coming?