I am beginning to believe.
The earth is twenty six years old.
What is coming
from between the leaves of my plates
is liquid rock still red with the heat
of the push and pull
of the fabric of space time.
Not really. I know what it is.
More than the knowing is
the feeling
that maybe it is okay to change
the landscape
if mother sees fit
to wear something new
every once in an era.
We talk about it
on and off
between high tea
and highest tides
and the moon likes
to chime in once in a while.
So we talk about it
and share our feelings
about tectonic geometries,
but mostly
I am starting to believe
what cums from the intersection
of intent and isness
is a heat I still do not understand
like starshine on the waters
of an ocean
where the forces beneath break loose
and push the heart of a planet
through a throat
to sip open air
it otherwise could never know.
