The Earth Weeps in Me: A Poem of Climate Grief and Healing

The Earth weeps in me—

not as thunder,

but as soft, relentless rain.

Not as screams,

but as silence too heavy to carry.

It starts in my chest—

a tremor,

a flicker of mourning for something still alive,

barely.

I watch forests fall like memories,

each tree a chapter of my childhood

that the wind forgot to remember.

Plastic tides rise where fish once danced.

Ash settles where snow should be.

The bees hum no more.

Every documentary feels like a funeral.

Every weather report, a warning.

And still,

I scroll.

I consume.

I blink through smoke-filled headlines,

wondering if it’s too late to care,

or worse,

too late to change.

But in that grief—

raw, real,

burning behind my eyes—

something stirs.

A whisper from the soil:

“You are part of me still.”

So I begin again.

I carry a bottle made of glass.

I walk more.

I waste less.

I plant herbs in cracked pots.

They grow crooked,

but they grow.

I speak aloud my fear to friends

who nod

with tears they thought only they carried.

We talk,

not of apocalypse,

but of possibility.

We grieve together,

and laugh still,

because joy, too, is an act of rebellion.

The Earth weeps in me,

but she sings, too—

soft lullabies in compost and rainwater,

in bike rides and thrifted clothes,

in long hugs

and light switches turned off with care.

I am not a savior,

but I am not powerless.

I am not perfect,

but I am present.

And in the quiet of choosing to care,

again and again,

I hear her voice—

not weeping,

but healing.