The Grateful Earth | Teen Ink

The Grateful Earth

March 9, 2009
By Jack_Meriwether SILVER, Paulding, Ohio
Jack_Meriwether SILVER, Paulding, Ohio
8 articles 1 photo 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Let X equal the quantity of all quantities of X. Let X equal the cold. It is cold in December. The months of cold equal November through February. There are four months of cold, and four of heat, leaving four months of indeterminate temperature. In February it snows. In March the Lake is a lake of ice. In September the students come back and the bookstores are full. Let X equal the month of full bookstores. The number of books approaches infinity as the number of months of cold approaches four. I will never be as cold now as I will in the future. The future of cold is infinite. The future of heat is the future of cold. The bookstores are infinite and so are never full except in September...” -Proof, David Auburn

The soaked grassy floor squirms and whines beneath my shoes.
The thick, engorged ground is saturated with wetness,
Patches of bare earth revealed, teeming with sticks and leaves and hickory nuts.
The sky turns shockingly white, plummeting the townspeople into blindness.
The very shade of the heavens is revealed in this divine outbreak.
Leaves are rushing towards me, past my face, entangling in my hair,
In fear of being lost forever.
Everything is enlightened by this moment.
The shrubs, the bushes of dead flowers, begging for spring, are wailing to the heavens,
'Show us, so we will know,' they say.
Even the trash receptacles are itching to move from their solitude on the pavement and partake in this merriment, this party that is glossed with fear and respect.
The wet, porous streets are gleaming,
Automobiles do not dare pass on them.
The sky is hued of the ocean; the cloudless sky is His way of enrapturing us in His bosom.
The wind has not deceased yet.
I lift my withering arm to my face, to cover my poor eyes.
My eyes that do not match the resilience of my soul.
The earth's rumples and folds are heightened by this shining orb in the sky,
Casting shadows that make my weep.
The sky is spewing bright-white fire,
Roaring as a ravenous tiger.
I fall, my knees meeting the ground with a damp thud.
I will surely find thick mud on my jeans after this hour.
I lay upon the grateful earth, making a bed for myself.
I lay and count the sun beams, the wind strokes, and my lips form the words, 'Thank yoooou.'

The author's comments:
This is a poem about a storm that never actually happened.

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This article has 1 comment.

Deanne said...
on Apr. 7 2009 at 4:39 am
This imagery is so vivid i can almost feel the leaves