Mother Earth breathes in a slow, green lung,
a rhythm written before the first psalm was sung.
The wolf chases the deer into the thicket’s heart,
not out of malice, but to play its lifes part;
the fallen leaf feeds
the soil births the oak,
a silent pact, a soft and ancient yoke.
Everything here has a price and a place.
Rain pays the river to keep up the pace.
Sun trades its fire for the sugar in the leaf.
Predator’s hunger is the meadow’s relief.
A circular rhythm, a hum in the mud,
carried in sap and whispered in blood.
Man arrives with a different math,
carving lines through the flowering path.
He doesn’t just take; he overgrows the glass,
turning wildflower into a memory of grass.
Where woods once sighed,
concrete now screams,
choking lakes and mountain streams.
He broke the circle to build his tower,
mistaking conquest of nature for power.
The gears of the world start to grind and fray,
The gardener forgets he is made of the clay.
The peace is a thin thread, pulled taut and uneven,
fraying at the edges of the world we were given.
The earth is patient, waiting for the sound
of the machine to go quiet and return to the ground.
For the cycle is larger than the hand that defies it,
Nature remains, even as man tries to buy it.