The Earth Walks With Me

have traveled paths,
waded through the thick dust of the land,
my hands marked by the burdens of labor.

The sun spills over my shoulders,
its crown breaking in gold.

I stop,
lean into the wind’s breath,
and listen.

The open fields—untamed, endless—
call out with a deep, constant hunger.

I kneel.
The earth speaks back,
its voice laden
with the sweat of those who came before.

Elders—long gone—
still whisper through the soil,
still shaping the air
with the rhythm of their breath,
as if they never left.

I speak as one who works,
rising from the ground,
returning to it in time.

Child of laborers,
kin to those who toil,
a future father to those yet to be.

Beneath me, I feel the heartbeat—
the steady thrum of the working soul,
the lifeblood of the world
no ruler can claim,
no law can trap.

It beats.
It calls.

I see the sweep of life—
the green fields, brown soil, vast skies, and gray storms.

Dirt lines my fingers.
Sweat beads my brow.

In the trees,
in the flowing rivers,
in the cries for what is right,
in the songs born of love—
I see myself.

I speak the names of many.
I carry wounds deep inside.
Hope lives in my bones.

I move forward.
I fall.
I rise.
I keep walking.

And the earth walks beside me.

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