Earth

Earth, builder of beauty; her plumb line: a still point, precious center, damp minerals. What I’m composing are my words: a swathe of heat, painted deserts, morning musk, saguaro green. Upon my lips, misted whispers: a fog’s low roots, moist glaze, dawn’s red vine, dappled light, cypress, corn silk. I shake my pen and from its throat spills night’s ink sac: salt, stones, spicy stars. I shake it more: it empties the imagery; my feelings; black sand, spears of pine, a river’s idle yawn. Earth pushes us from her womb where an underground gurgle, like a god blowing into a straw, creates star bubbles, first breath, birth cry. Like birds, we build nests, lay eggs, feel earth buzz in our bones: a jug of dreams, seasons, necessities. –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– From my fourth book: 'The Translator' Transcendent Zero Press, 2015 This poem was first published in 'Eunoia Review (China)' Editor: Ian Chung Search Amazon: "the translator/dah"