It was called Earth. Terra firma,
the mysterious greenhouse.
Nothing fancy, it was what it was.
That’s how books described it.
The green years.
Once upon a time in hallowed dress,
earth was all in green leaves,
and lily fresh, and we spoke weary
in the languages of history.
All those uppity languages, those
thick tongued wishy words, and
drafty voices clucking agreement.
But all was too late, all lost.
And there came a mysterious sound
as the earth fell back into roots. We’d
lost our taste for earth. We groped
and buried it into a greenery tale.
And the young boy handed his mother
a book, and said –
Read me a story. About earth and that
one-horned ox who ate thunderclouds,
and lived in a tangle of tree bones.
Back when green and lily fresh ended.