a person could write
a thousand poems

and still
not be read

until one fine day
a Reaper of thoughts
feelings and signs

falls deeply
deeply,
into
slumber.

and when
holding
that chalice
of light
and blood

taketh unto
his breath
the utmost
god almighty
   and sighs,

'to be your beloved
what mighteth
not die?'

Shall I compare thee to a cradle bright?
Though what shine of diamond gold mighteth beg for comparison’s taste?
Such righteous jealousy fit mere for the maid in the wakest of thy maternality blue.
Thou art always abrighter.

Shall I compare thee to the taste of butter?
Thou art always a sweeter sight; sweeter taste; sweeter touch.
For what canth butter compare to thy winds salted?
Breezes of milk and honey which kisth my tired, loving eyes, as I bid away the sun?

Perhaps thou mightst be held to the mere earthworm? An extension of thy will.
Thy gentle hands. Gardeners of thy Eden. Greeners of the dead and brown.
Ye soft escorts of thy exhausted children; guiding to thy womb; reclaiming our empty vessels in careful embrace when cometh our arrival home.

Alas, continue in such delusional pittings with what fine conscious, I cannot.
If thou beest compared to these prior, thou beest compared to thyself.
Thyself that be butter, earthworm and sun.
Thy maternality to every mater vixitum, and every patron of thy leaf and sky.
Thyself that be peasants of the sand and soil.
That be the tyrants.
That be their toys.
Thou art seen in thy saltwater Saharas,
Felt in thy grass and thy stone,
Heard in the sparrow. In the flicker of a fire drenched in music and dance.
In stories of love and soul.

Shath none dare compare themselves to thee.
Thou art our Gaea. The Earth Mother. Ki.