They asked if I were Sun or Moon.
A light to blaze, or one to borrow;
To gild the morn or guard the noon,
To shine, or dream in silvery sorrow.
But I, soft-rooted, could not rise,
For mine are humbler, greener ties.
I am the Earth, slow-breathing sphere,
With veins of rivers, heart of loam;
Where seasons spin their fragile year,
And every creature builds a home.
I cradle dawn, I bury dusk,
And wear both sunlight and its husk.
The Sun may crown me, fierce and gold,
The Moon may haunt my sleeping seas;
Yet neither warmth nor wonder bold
Could make me less than roots and breeze.
For stars may rule the sky above
But I am soil, and grief, and love.
I bear the bloom, the ash, the thorn,
The poet’s field, the mourner’s tomb;
From every death, a seed is born,
From every night, a brighter bloom.
They ask again. What light am I?
I am the ground where lights may die.
Dec 7, 2025
Dec 7, 2025 at 4:16 PM UTC
They asked if I were Sun or Moon.
A light to blaze, or one to borrow;
To gild the morn or guard the noon,
To shine, or dream in silvery sorrow.
But I, soft-rooted, could not rise,
For mine are humbler, greener ties.
I am the Earth, slow-breathing sphere,
With veins of rivers, heart of loam;
Where seasons spin their fragile year,
And every creature builds a home.
I cradle dawn, I bury dusk,
And wear both sunlight and its husk.
The Sun may crown me, fierce and gold,
The Moon may haunt my sleeping seas;
Yet neither warmth nor wonder bold
Could make me less than roots and breeze.
For stars may rule the sky above
But I am soil, and grief, and love.
I bear the bloom, the ash, the thorn,
The poet’s field, the mourner’s tomb;
From every death, a seed is born,
From every night, a brighter bloom.
They ask again. What light am I?
I am the ground where lights may die.
