I do not see you as if above
with the flighty creatures, or
with the sun’s bright arrogance,
on a pedestal of all the world.
Rather, you are the fields of dirt,
endless, nourishing, and whole.
You are where the flowers grow and
humble the vast space around.
This is how I love you, in dim light,
casting seeds to the ground;
with rough touch of peasant’s hands
that your harvest may be sweet;
with nectar’s lust and aching.