"Listen to me," she whispered, spinning sphere
of seas. "We want healing too" (a revelation).
Pines meditating, breathing bombs long gone;
she, too, could be rooted, accept rain guttering
in veins, metabolize as a Viper's bowstring,
our chlorophyll equally evolved.
Why, in Western philosophies,
are levels of gods, humans, angels an arm's length
to insight rather than a rock, when it is we, species
to annihilate, who learn how to force the stone into
violent enterprise?
Lay aside your suicides, lists of how to strategize.
Let us learn to halt, notice,
and run like deer in wild path.
"Gaia," they introduce themselves, and she melts into mud
before her feet become leaf, digging furiously beneath
concrete streets in hopes to finally breathe.
If you cannot, she thought, go far,
then go deep.
Re-direct until free.
