There is no mistaking she’s alive.
My hands on the grass receive her touch
And I detect her pulse within my blood,
Her breath within my breath. In my stillness
Her spin’s perceived: no greater stillness
than the turning Earth can be found on Earth.
For this men strive: they come and go, I find,
Like thoughts occurring to some greater mind.
We who leapt like fleas to reach the Moon
and, looking back, saw all your mirrored phases
in a dead sky, and walked as living ghosts
upon a dry, a tide-less, a loveless sea,
and left in boot-prints monumental kisses
on your sister’s cheek…
We, who did all this in obedience to your will,
Home of all homes! Mother whose old molten heart
burst, and burnt Pompeii in rage and love,
forgetting, as the lava dried, the child’s sin.
Once we feared you, loved you in that fear,
for death did not resemble nothingness
but seemed rebirth, witnessed by the eyes
that saw a child born – a miracle
so obvious that faith was not a word
we needed; wonder was the creed of life
and life within us proved the Goddess lived,
and lived immortal.
Here I will stay upon a scattered seed
blown forever through the Sun’s domain,
Home, and returned home, and never left;
And rest as if forever upon the grass,
and underneath the ocean men call breath,
On the soft relentless stillness of the Earth.
And let the butterfly mistake me for a flower:
I will not move for all my human power.