The Earth Writes Itself To Me, And I To It


John Keats was right, the poetry of the earth isn’t ever dead.

I can feel it when I close my eyes, when the sun kisses my cheeks, my closed eyelids, the bridge of my nose. I can feel the poetry when grass tickles my skin, when the ground swells beneath my feet, when the summer air fills my lungs.

The earth sings to me in its colors—the bright blues of sky, yellows of sun, flowers basked in the golden yellow of the late afternoon rays.

The wind speaks long syllables in each sigh. The soil calls, coaxing my wandering feet.

The earth writes itself to me, in every fallen leaf, every grain of sand sliding between my bare toes, in every morning sunrise, in every floating cloud, in every cricket humming its goodnight tune.

And I write myself to it in return. In every breath, in every step.
Together we make poetry.