Gaia

Gaia, oh Gaia. Wherefore art thou, Gaia? I walk through your valley of shadows, Gaia, shaded by the veil of pearls, rubies and diamonds you spread upon the Earth. I watch your dance, your shaking and snaking through gravel passageways through the undersides of rivers so cavernous that stalactites form in my brain. I feel–yes, feel–Gaia, your hands on my head, careening into my skull as if the molecules will reformat themselves, burst through my arteries and spread your perfume. I’m looking, oh Gaia, into my iPod of existence, into the echo tunnel of canyons inside my body, my own replica of the Earth’s sounds to wake them up, to set them loose, to rewire them into cliffs that no one has seen before.

But alas, as simple as it might seem, you, Gaia, lord over it all. You have the power and the spark to ignite the planet into new life, into new sunsets, into new moons. Can you stop those people who defile you? Who dump their shit into your waters, burn your trees, and crave elephant tusks?

Ah yes, Gaia. They are the thieves of everything, aren’t they? Why do you permit them to hang out in your house? They drink from your milk cartons and spill the last drops on your floor. They trudge dirt and sludge through your rugs. They bring in tics and attach them to your skin. And yet, you let them in, didn’t you? Through the grid in the screen door you welcomed them, and they smiled at you, and you spread out your carpet and danced for them.