GAIA’S SKIN, A true story
I was cruising smoothly through the woods, Cataloguing trees, When I tripped upon a supine vine, Which brought me to my knees.
The vine would not apologize – It had done such things before. So there I sat most humbly, Down upon the leafy floor.
As long as I was painless, I thought I might as well Calm down and see what’s happening At the bottom of the dell.
To my left there lay a rotting limb, From which I pulled some bark, Beneath which there were funguses: A microcosmic Ark.
Colonies of fruiting flesh, Spread out upon the wood, As if they wandered down the trunk; I’m almost sure they could.
Now I try to be objective, And I know it might sound brash, But I have to say that one of them Looked like a festering rash.
Adjacent was an ocher fur. It seemed they must compete, To assimilate the spongy wood, For how else could they eat?
Such multi-colored pageantry, A tapestry of fuzz- A mycoplastic universe, That is, and will, and was.
A motionless black scorpion, Green insect in its jaws, Its stinger coiled to one side; A killer without flaws.
A sow bug flowed across the edge, Past earwigs pinchers up, And a predatory spider stalked A bug that it might sup.
All this in a rough square foot, Of a space by where I sat; A tiny random sampling Of the planet’s living mat.
I saw only what was visible; The Mother knew much more, Of how its all united, From the surface to the core;
The web of All Connectedness, Pulsing hard and true and sweet; How can we not appreciate This world at our feet?