In the cathedral of damp earth
I stretch my fingers, groping,
following the dark’s slow music.
Stone is my scripture,
worms my witnesses.
I drink the memory of rain,
the taste of centuries in loam.
Above me,
a hymn of light is breaking.
Its pulse beats
through the bones of soil—
a shiver of warmth,
a wind I cannot touch.
I ache upwards in secrecy,
cradled by silence,
longing for the sky’s shifting face:
its unburdened blue,
its storm-bright wings,
its fever of stars.
Until then,
I press against dark,
hoarding the rain,
listening for sky.
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