A Message From The Earth
A Message from the Earth
The keeper beneath your feet has something to say…
When was the last time you truly stopped?
Not just paused, not just passed through a park on your way to somewhere else —
But stopped... and gave your full attention to the ground beneath your feet?
The ground that holds you without fail. The air that enters your lungs without request. The waters that cool your skin, the trees that shade your children, The food that grows—quietly, faithfully—from the same soil that has cradled your ancestors.
When was the last time you thanked it?
This planet—our one and only home—asks for so little, yet gives so much. She bears our weight, absorbs our chaos, and continues to bloom despite the wounds we inflict.
We have grown clever, haven’t we? We send messages to the stars, split atoms, measure galaxies… But somehow forget the sacred intelligence of a single seed.
This Earth is not just a resource. She is not a thing. She is a living, breathing, aching being. A keeper of time. A mother to all.
And like any mother, she is tired.
“She is not a thing. She is a living, breathing, aching being.”
I, the Keeper Beneath Your Feet
By the Earth
I am the hush before the dawn,
The breath that births the morning sky.
I am the cradle of the seed,
The moss, the stone, the eagle’s cry.
I am the marrow of the hill,
The silence buried in the sand,
The molten hymn beneath the crust,
The pulse that steadies every land.
You walk upon my woven bones,
With feet unknowing, hearts alight —
But I have held your fathers’ bones,
And turned their ashes into light.
I’ve kept your rivers soft and wide,
And kissed the shore with tide’s embrace.
I’ve held the rain in swollen clouds
And carved the canyon’s sacred face.
The bloom, the beast, the winter bare,
The honeyed dusk, the stormbird’s wail —
Each breath you take, I gift you whole,
Each breath you waste, I watch you fail.
Use me — yes — I give with grace:
The iron deep, the forest tall,
The harvest sweet beneath your hand…
But do not take until I fall.
I am your table, cup, and cloth.
I feed you with ancestral flame.
But greed — oh child, your quiet rot —
Is not a feast, but famine’s name.
You hollow hills to feed your gold,
You drink my veins and call it gain,
You crown the sky with choking smoke,
You burn my breath to build your name.
And still I hold. And still I hum.
And still I let the sparrow nest.
But know — this strength is not without
Its breaking point, its final test.
I cracked when kingdoms rose too high.
I swallowed cities drunk on power.
Empires fell like brittle leaves —
I watched them crumble by the hour.
Yet here you stand, still new, still bold,
And I—still loyal, old, and vast—
But hear me now, O fleeting soul:
My patience is not built to last.
Treat me as your elder kin,
Not servant, slave, nor treasure chest.
Breathe with me, not through me, child —
And let the wild things take their rest.
For I am not your endless vault.
I am not coin nor idle land.
I am your shelter, womb, and grave,
And all you hold, I shaped by hand.
So take your fill, but not your all.
Let rivers run, let forests grow.
For when I break, I break in full —
And none who dwell in me will know
A second chance, a softer sky,
A soil where time will ever lie.
I am the Earth — the rooted flame —
The whisperer of stone and sea.
You may be many things, dear one…
But without me, you cease to be.
🌱 What Will You Do With This Message?
Take a moment to reflect:
- When did I last walk barefoot on the Earth?
- How can I give back more than I take?
- What does the Earth give me that I’ve forgotten to thank her for?
Let this be your invitation — to slow down, reconnect, and protect the only home we’ve ever known.
💌 Share This Message
If this touched your heart, please share it with someone who needs to hear it. Pin it, repost it, or simply whisper a quiet thank you to the wind today.