Terra

Then the LORD God formed a man

from the dust of the ground

—Genesis 2:7

 

The ground

is the humblest

of creation. We give it no

lauds or praise. It drinks

decomposition. Feeds on

grisly waste. Gods would

deign to dwell; it’s why the sky

is holy.

 

It gets no gratitude.

We curse the way it

stains our blues & whites.

Belittle its worth—call it

dirt and grime.

 

We rid it of the ice—

not so it may breathe,

but we won’t slip & topple.

 

It gets a once-in-a-lifetime

kiss—only when we realize

it’s been missed. Has housed

our deep foundations.

Swallowed our myriad

dead.

 

It gifts us gravity—

then keeps us

against our will.

What a dichotomous

creature. Locked in

loneliness; the longsuffering of

its love; our boots which

trek its spine—hunched to lift us up

upon its shoulders

(for its hills would span to

heaven if they could)—

 

a father with a daughter

on his delts; her breath

upon his nape,

 

her fingers unfurled

to snatch a buoyant cloud—

as though the seed of weed,

as though it held a wish,

 

the answer to

an aberrant prayer.

 

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

October 29, 2026

photograph: JM Paget / Dreamstime