The Soil

She’s a heaving, breathing,

Feminine being.

Full of curves and points and hard parts and softness.

Laid bare by her carers,

Suffering the cold wind,

Bitten and bitter.

Her skin tears and she bleeds,

Wind whipping, scratching, opening wounds that do not heal.

Without any winter clothes she is vulnerable,

Weakened and worn.
Her power and energy flung wayward,
Watched dispassionately by her stewards.

Yet, with spring’s warmth

She will be called on to wake
And swallow what is fed to her
And endure her trials of tillage and seeding.

She’ll be expected to nourish the babies,

Give her whole self,

Absorb the poisons designed to protect the babies but

That weaken her, kill her immunities 

And open her to disease.

She sighs, subdued, waits for spring,
Hoping only that by next winter, she’ll be left with cover,

Maybe some new trees, like braids in her hair,

That can slow the wind, hold the snow, 

And keep her whole.

So that she can not only nourish everyone else
But start to rebuild herself.