On sunbaked pavement, bare feet.
Reverberating from my presence, my last bit of oomph.
Surrounding me, a fullness of everything but empty vacuum space.
From beneath my feet, a tenderness born from molten milk of your magma.
Reigning down upon me, a symphony of color.
Nothing more magnificent, the mother that is our world.
Forgetful most times without you, there wouldn’t be us.
Howbeit, on loam and in water, in heaven and everywhere in between, you are the all-wise it is forever so dearly divine.