Mother

Or Matter

Primavera, Sandro Botticelli (1470)

I used to trust anything I could

count,

polish,

or stack.

Until sacred matter 
turned to scattered ash.



They worship the shimmer

but never ask the origin,

whether the soil bled centuries of tears

so they could strip her altar

for their own adornment.



Years and years of abuse.

The earth felt it all.

Their crowns turned to rust

while she remembered the fall.



They never heard the echo,

only the sparkle in their eyes.

I asked if they felt it.

They said:

There’s no proof. You tell lies.



So we reap what we sow.

Reaching for the roots

lost long ago.

Waiting for her to hold the miracle 
once more.



But waiting took too long.

So I buried my hands in the soil

and felt God exhale.