For the Earth Giveth

Dead wood for bed Withered cotton for a mattress I don’t pluck fruits I gather them ripe from the ground A tasty tuber protrudes With delight I up root it Cobwebs hang in my ceiling Ant routes run up and down my floor Dry grass for a roof Thick mud for my walls The wind whistling through the trees A song announcing a cool breeze Dry leaves fall graciously like feathers They form a rustling soft carpet on the ground The artistry so beautiful without a human hand It blossoms in my face all the time I don’t grab from the earth It gives generously on its own time