Our Planet


Earth. Even the sound is almost round. Urth.
Atmospheric orb of atomic warmth, like her mouth
in candle light as her smile shimmers, lips
as scintillant as shores around a limpid lake
that glint the full moon’s glossy beams. Erthe:
moving and swirling depths of water above
the heart’s core of heat, like her undulating tongue –
one wave cresting into heaving clouds hovering
and circling and covering my mouth in blankets
of motion, precipitating a high tide of moisture,
showering this globe with primordial rains,
raising all dust and dryness out of this fallow
ground by soaking it. Aerde: swollen mounds
can move mountains, proving the almost round
and rippling flesh is sound, its surface taut
like skin firm and hard. Eorthe. Her skin. Earth.




John Kryder


Poems