She Holds Us

In her palm she holds us, Mother Earth, our dear one. Quietly she's moaning. Wants to say a prayer. But a burden hinders, Crawling on her fingers. Penniless and moneyed, Skinny ones and chubby — Tiny little ants, Thinking very little. Genetic Cheburashkas, Helmets with no visor. Digging, cutting, plowing Mother's little palms. What we took is ours now. Long as there's a spoonful. And if it comes up empty — Off they run to pray. You can hear her moaning, Mother Earth, so softly.