Mother Earth


"What shall I miss when I die?" you ask.
"It is Mother Earth," I say. "It is Mother Earth."
Fresh rain on dry parched land in August late,
Wild flowers fragrantly carried on sweet breath,
Dresses of brilliant greens in precocious springs,
Dried corned lying gently in field arm reams,
Cotton fields happily dancing pushed gently by her wind,
Baring heat upon my naked body as I fiend,
Her arms swollen from the toxins ready to burst,
Oh, the wretched, wretched human curse,
Putrid dead fish jumping seeking refuge from blackened water womb,
Lakes, rivers, dying from chemicals her fingers cocooned.
"What shall I miss when I die?" you ask.
"It is Mother Earth," I say. "It is Mother Earth."
Fertility was endless, freely she gave
Take, take, selfishly we have been fave.
We say, tomorrow, I will do better, but tomorrow passes quickly.
Tomorrow I will plant something, even if prickly.
I hope to pass before Mother Earth.
I do not think she will miss me, even I plea.
"What shall I miss when I die?" you ask.
"It is Mother Earth," I say. "It is Mother Earth."

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This Poems Story

I grew up on a rural farm community in Cameron, TX. I was raised with boys, two sisters who left home when I was six, along with my two parents. It was a hard and tumultuous upbringing. I spent many of the passing hours with Mother Nature in friendship. I loved the stillness of her dying leaves in winter similar to the gaping hole in my heart. Winter became a consoling time of year. Together Mother Nature and I bore the cold winters, which transformed us into the beautiful creations God intended.