The Sacred Key

Standing at a door.
Hewn from past Milleniums.
The deafening roar of the silence
Of time, comes.
And in quiet rabble
Tell all who would have ears
To hear, of the

Veneration of noncontainment.

Echocing the challenge of
Proceeding generational
creation.
Profitable in each of its design
The procedure is long and labourious.
The influence of star stuff,
Balancing the comings and goings
Of life from its beginnings.
And up and outward toward
The mangnitude of impassioned
Procreation, to keep the future
And future, futures, alive
With ongoing harmonies.

Does not the grasses sing in
Breezes yet to gently blow.

Does not their seeds wait for
Their deliverance and resting place.

Flowers wait in earnestness for
The buzz of their surrogate lovers.

Creatures seek each other for that
Inherent drive we seek each other for.

The ever vigilant earth seeks
Deep within her own heart
To build and restructure the
Rock and granite and clay.
Like furrows in a field.

Precise and virtuous.
In worthy adroitness
she renews, replenishes and replaces
giving to us helpless mortals.
Unselfishly

The key to the door of
HER
Own mortality.