Hymn for the Father of the Earth

Strong he stands, the father of the earth

Roots reaching deep into mud, into clay,

into layers of dampened rock and fossil

Patient he sits perched on the gray slates of mountainous stone

tending the vales and the meadows, his gardens

Silent he drifts with the eastern wind,

Leading a scatter of seeds through the songs

of northbound birds and over olive hills

Gentle he kneels in the riverbed rinsing his hands

in the rolling waters, bubbling and lapping at the hairs on his arms

Wise he smiles, the vines of summer woven in his hair

And his eyes are manifestations of the sky

with flecks of blackened dirt, the beds of life