By Shem Onderi
I will dress her in green —
pale green,
to show the fading grace of Mother Earth.
Her original shade was deep and lush,
but now she plays the master role,
the mother role,
faltering in dimmed attire.
She is the feeder of all that lives.
At times in this play she must weep —
loud, unrestrained,
tears brimming with grief,
though they dry almost as soon
as they appear.
Her cry must move the judges,
draw their own tears into the script.
Her lines will be bold,
her whispers italic.
Her body must be emaciated,
too frail to hold her instruments,
her muscles trembling,
children at her side,
all demanding her care.
Often she mourns these children —
some who sold away
their inheritance of earth’s wealth,
while her great-grandchildren
chase after the buyers
for the crumbs of a share.
Other planets scheme to strangle her,
to steal her gift of life,
to host humanity too.
Still, Earth speaks in the play,
though her voice is stifled
by actors who overshadow her lines.
This play is no small matter.
It is about everything —
everything of life itself,
which only Mother Earth
can hold.