and before oceans were given names,
the Earth practiced becoming a woman.
It shaped valleys into the curve of her hips,
rolled hills into the softness of her thighs,
and stretched the horizon wide
to teach her how to carry longing.
winding through hidden places,
carrying life from one shore to another.
The blood in her veins is no different—
traveling endlessly home,
feeding every distant village of flesh,
every sleeping forest of bone.
Her hair is the grass of a thousand meadows.
It grows toward sunlight,
dances beneath invisible winds,
lies quiet beneath moonlight,
and rises again with morning.
that beauty is not in standing still,
but in moving with the seasons.
Her lungs borrow their rhythm from forests.
and somewhere leaves tremble.
and the world exhales with her.
Her heartbeat echoes the old drums of the Earth—
the crashing of waves against stone,
the shifting of mountains,
the patient pulse beneath roots
that have waited centuries for rain.
How strange that we learn to love one
for the life she carries within her,
yet forget that the Earth does the same.
She bears our footprints without complaint,
feeds us from her own body,
where we have left scars.
is to understand the Earth.
To trace the river beneath her skin
and recognize the rivers outside your window.
To run your fingers through her hair
and think of summer fields bending in the breeze.
To rest against her chest
and hear the same ancient song
that hums beneath mountains and oceans.
it feels like sunrise spilling over a sleeping valley,
the kind that makes birds sing
and wildflowers open their faces to the light.
For she is not merely standing upon the Earth.
a meadow crowned with grass,
that the world has always known
how to make something beautiful.
tangentwithtanner
amandla
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