Mother Gaia hears each tiny drum
shudder out of rhythm, then stop.
She gathers fallen wings,
heavy as earth.
These wings are her burden,
the stones she must carry
in the pockets of her daydreams.

Mother collects fish eyes at low tide,
picks through night's deposit of death
on oil-stinking sand.
She fills a fruit jar with eyes,
blind, no matter where they look.
These are the eyes
that allow her to see in water dreams.

Mother is a beautiful bag lady
who collects bleached bones, teeth,
human tongues and turtle shells.
Squirrel tails and rabbit ears
bring a smile to her fingers.
Eagle feathers flutter into her grasp.
Gaia gathers the skins of poets and thieves.

No one knows of Mother Gaia's nights,
where she sleeps,
much less the quilt made of stones and straw
in which she wraps herself, heartsick,
grieving as only a planet can.
She offers herself to the sun each dawn,
a lover she knows will eventually **** her
in his embrace.

*A quote from Frances Phillips in her review of Linda Hogan's "Climbing a Rope Ladder".