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
Copyright © Michelo Mweetwa | Year Posted 2019
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