Deep in the soil I heard Earth sigh—
a long, low tremor through the bone;
and I pressed my face into the cold, wet loam
to borrow strength from roots unknown.
I cried for light—
for the sky that flees when sorrow bends the knee—
yet the ground, patient as a mother,
held its silence over me.
Then high above, a single bird
stirred the dawn with feathered grace;
her tiny claws, like hymns of morning,
woke the numbness from my face.
She built her nest with threadbare treasures—
twig and straw, and faith, and pain;
a little artist in the branches,
laboring for life again.
And in her work I felt my heart—
the lonely part that keeps its vow,
that loves the world despite its wildness,
and breaks, yet rises somehow.
For this is a wild world, beloved—
men cut it open, women bleed it,
and sorrow climbs both stem and stone;
yet even in the wounds of living,
we find the seeds of love are sown.
O world so fierce, so torn, so tender—
you bruise us, yes—but teach us too:
to kneel to Earth with humbled spirit,
and rise to sky with vision new.
:: REV 11.30.2025 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 