Sometimes she catches fire
And it doesn’t matter what burns.
Sometimes it’s lightning, but mostly it’s not her fault.
Sometimes she wears a hurricane like a fascinator.
Her eye is its center, calm and silent.
Lace, tulle, feathers, siding, cement piers, branches and
Her gaze, her hold.
Sometimes she erupts from within.
It isn’t something we can handle, to see what she holds inside.
We run, cower and are covered over while she cools.
Sometimes she shakes, grinding teeth, shuffling the cards of her layers.
The tide pull, the daily turn, and the yearly turn, too.
Her movements through space, beyond imagination.
A mother’s love life.
We can’t know her or see her for who she is.
We can’t even find our place on her surface properly.
We ruin, we find dominion.
She, herself, a drop of life on a web we can’t fathom. A vast home ranging far above our thought, ranging past our extinction.
What’s that they say, “To know her is to love her”?
Or maybe “Have mercy on me a sinner”.