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"
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