Wounded with bombs and highways, the Earth coughs, bleeds,
and warns, and is not heard nor heeded.

And still she loves, her tremendous heart
expanding, contracting in awesome measure.

After the magical thrust through root and bark
of blood-streams of seas and thunderous rivers,

magnificently various, she offers
the sacrifice of elegance, in flowers.

Multiple is she in anger and reverence,
passion and prayer. Even in catastrophe

and tempest, confounding harmonies enlighten.
She is haloed with many balancing haloes,

each day crowned with a corona of caroling
as bird-note meets bird-note at dawn moving westward.

Warmed, made fertile and lucent by her Sun,
laved by her rains, loved by her delicate snows,

I see her sleeping dreaming, waking,
streaming rays from glorious eyes, of blue light;

measuring the secret of us all in a mighty
splendid montage, she is hermaphorodite.

Let the palm of our love caress the line
of her multiform breasts; the hips of her hills;

embrace her tree barks, mightier than books;
lie in her arms. She will give us goldend bread, _and wine.