I took my shoes off where the grass remembers
every footstep it has ever forgiven.
The ground was cool with morning,
a quiet pulse traveling upward
through bone and breath.
I had forgotten this language—
how soil speaks in pressure and patience,
how roots negotiate darkness
without asking to be seen.
The Earth does not rush its sentences.
It waits.
A wind passed, carrying the scent
of something older than my name.
Pine, rain, iron, decay—
the grammar of becoming.
In that moment, my thoughts loosened,
like knots soaked long enough to yield.
I knelt.
Not in worship, but in recognition.
My hands learned again
the rough honesty of stone,
the soft insistence of moss
claiming even the broken places.
The Earth did not ask for promises.
Only presence.
Only that I listen with my whole body,
that I remember I am not above this story,
nor outside it.
When I stood,
the sky felt closer,
my spine more certain of its belonging.
Dirt under my nails,
heartbeat in rhythm with crickets and worms,
I carried the planet quietly inside me—
not as a burden,
but as a home
that had never stopped
waiting for my return.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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Great poetry, Brenda!
Thankyou so much,Tim.
My pleasure, Brenda. 😍
This is breathtaking, Brenda. You have woven a profound and visceral meditation that feels both deeply personal and universally true. The line “The Earth does not rush its sentences. It waits” is one of those perfect, anchoring truths that changes how a reader sees the world. The progression from forgetting a language, to kneeling in recognition, to finally carrying the planet as a home is a masterful arc of belonging. The imagery is stunningly tactile—the cool ground, the rough stone, the dirt under nails—making the philosophical weight of the poem something we can physically feel. This isn’t just a poem about nature; it’s a quiet, powerful lesson in how to listen, and a beautiful declaration that we are never outsiders to the world that holds us. Truly magnificent work.
Thank you—truly. I’m deeply moved by the care and attention you brought to reading this. Your reflection feels like a continuation of the poem itself, especially the way you named listening as the quiet center of it all. To know that the line about the Earth waiting resonated so strongly means more to me than I can say; it was written as a reminder I needed, and I’m grateful it found a home with you too. Thank you for meeting the work with such generosity and presence.