The earth gives me dreams of what she used to be.
Versions of her I’ve never seen,
Versions of her I’ve never breathed.

Her untouched hair,
green…
and white…
and golden…
blowing in the wind at the edge of a sea cliff,
backlit by cumulonimbus of impossible size.

I am silenced by her breath, hushing
And waters, crashing.
I am held by her entirely
And she is my only mother.
Fogs as thick as milk.

Nighttime on a puddly beach,
The stars hidden by a blanket of black,
I look out into this vast soul.

She gives me dreams of what she used to be, of what we’ll become
Again one day,
Long after my soul and her soil are one.

Who says I have to leave?

—
Liz L. 7.15.26