Jord
by Michaela Macha
Nothing is wasted on me -
I give, and receive, and recycle.
Even you.
Hills and barrows, my breasts
From which volvas rise,
Breaking my skin
To talk to those still above.
Foolish though you are,
I am fond of you all;
You are me, in a way, after all.
I loathe to let my children leave -
The pull of my gravity, motherly strings.
And when you feel proud
As you travel to Mani
Remember this:
He, too, revolves around me.
© Michaela Macha of Odin's Gift
- This poem is in the Common Domain and may be freely distributed,
provided it remains unchanged, including copyright notice and this License -