I mother earth

Somedays
So hard to get to sleep when
White trees
Are memorizing here
Above my head
This forest.

For any other cheetah
It’s always the plains
Come now
Paint our dogma
This landing strip
For the clouds we’ve made
They’ll never land.

So when my walk goes up
the downward sloping
hand
I need to run
Into these winter woodlands
Who cares if my shoes get wet?

If you catch me on a good day
With my roots in deep
to slow down
the march of the earth
equally vernal trunk
facing the full moon
In the future to the south

I just want to make snow angels.