Gaia

She does not speak in words,
but in the slow language of roots
and the long memory of stone.

She is the patience of mountains,
the quiet work of rivers
carving their way through resistance,
never loud,
yet changing everything.

Forests grow from her thoughts.
Oceans rise and fall with her breath.
We walk across her body
like children who have forgotten
whose house they live in.

She is not just softness.
She is volcano and fault line,
storm and hunger,
the hand that feeds
and the hand that takes back.

To belong to her
is not to own,
not to conquer,
not to tame —
but to listen.

And if you are very quiet,
barefoot on the soil,
palm pressed to the ground,
you will feel it —

A heartbeat.
Ancient.
Endless.
Not beneath you.

But around you.