He knows nothing of the soil, except her breaking.
The swell of power within his grasp.
Her face as she crumbles.
The musings of a weak man.
Self-centric at the expense of his children.
He knows nothing of his seed, except they carry his name.
The swell of pleasure and release.
His seed left unwatered.
Unsheltered by his shadow.
Left to scorch in summer sun.
At whim, he returns from pastures appearing green.
To curse the Earth in his own field.
She no longer yields her fruit to him.
She no longer longs for the mud of his boots.
She no longer allows herself to bend beneath his weight.
His fragile tyranny threatened by the strength of her clay.
Her water dried deep beneath his feet.
Left to realize that it was never the force of the plow.
But her willingness to self-sacrifice, the sole source of his
harvest.
In solitude, she learned the strength of feral freedom.
Beneath moonlight she found her own voice reminding
You belong… among the stars colliding.
You belong… to the River that runs alongside you.
You belong… in the hands of the heart that will stay
***
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