Listen

I press my face against the wrinkled flesh of the earth,
Listening to the washing-machine hum of its core.
Every muscle tenses, my bones splinter, my brain crackles
Like firewood, I feel a heat that supernovas from my middle
And stretches outward to every limb.
             I grasp the wild roses that unfurl between my fingers,
             Parting the rain dampened soil to dry their faces
             In the sun. I inhale their delicate breath and sleep.
                         I awake in the dark to the gentle kisses
                         Of rain that falls in thick, bulbous drops.
                         They run in tiny streams through my hair,
                         Like a mother's gentle fingers.
                                           I lie there and listen as the
                                           World and the universe
                                           Tries endlessly, desperately
                                            To understand itself.