Gaia

I don’t think of you, as a Goddess or a planet,
but perhaps more, and often less, more when
there is nothing man can do, when he pays
for treason, hacking down august orange
canopies, the leaves like stained glass splintered,
shards and specks, lying on the caked mud,
to build his overreaching tombs and catacombs,
just fashionably done, deception, deceitfulness,
trickery, that only fools a foolish eye.

Less when you serve, the farmer rewarded
for his share of toil, a harvest plentiful, bountiful,
the delight, the ecstasy of children smiling,
a mother’s tears of joy, and people satiated,
and that’s something that crosses gender, class,
boundaries, stigma, and caste, just like you.

But then you have times of capriciousness,
a rage that howls, fires up for no reason,
the ground shakes and swallows us up
as we get about our chores, and we never
know when.

All this makes you unfathomable, undecipherable,
more than that seen or felt or smelt, and
perhaps explanations to things unexplainable,
predictions of things unpredictable,
need avoidance, and the petrichor begs
for a song of grace to your Creator
that must be given.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Protected by Copyscape

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