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Daily I walk upon you, listening to you grow and move, breathing the color of seasons, drinking your scents.

Dear Planet Earth,

The words, Thank You, are shallow and small. Gratitude, overused. I'm sorry goes nowhere. Thanksgiving morphs into turkey and mashed potatoes. Indebted, drowns itself in shame.

You, Planet Earth, could be Divinity, a graceful word, pre-owned, priced out. You are innate, infrastructure, architecture, design, first and last beauty. Life, I name you, while I am what you are.

I received of you as a child. Your soil and water made delicious mud pies; beds of fir bows — first perfume; mesmerized, watching your season's full moons in clear, starry, night skies.

Daily I walk upon you, listening to you grow and move, breathing the color of seasons, drinking your scents. Sensing us losing our lives, together lifting off, closer and closer to the Sun, degree by degree.

Like Mars, no water, no soil, no mud pies or wet grass bathing bare feet. Instead, a sharp-edged body like broken Oyster shells, hurting back. What can I give you now, assuming life is all you need.

Not life to consume or control, but Life to Behold, to see, watch, survey, witness, gaze upon, regard, contemplate. Love, cherish 'til death do us part hoping my ashes will replace and nurture your vanishing soil.

Sincerely,

Norma

Norma Heyser is a member of the Jottings Group at The Lake Oswego Adult Community Center.


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