My earth beneath me feels dry and barren, like a piece of land unable to bring forth any vegetation. My earth has become sterile. It was once plush; harvesting ripe for the picking fruit. My earth can’t mold with dry clay. It can’t be fertilized with poison. My earth can’t bring forth creativity from a bleak and desolate darkness.
My earth needs light. My earth needs wetness. My earth needs to be fertile.
My earth thrives off of sultriness; damp and hydrated precipitation. Sticky even, at least with this there is the presence of moisture. Ah dripping, oozing perspiration. All it takes is a mist, and my earth is wet again.
For several mornings afterwards, I will see fog and dew; that’ll be lovely, for I will know that my earth beneath me is just as it should be. Productive.