You are a storm in its place over the great waters,
building strength as you slowly approach.
I sense the cold in you
and the bite your winds will bring�

But I have stillness greater than silence,
for I am the earth.

Time is grossly false here.
One season called �Waiting�
and only you can spring its leaves.

So I wait in my great solidity,
drinking the water your winds push toward me,
breathing the still air before the stir of your gales,
living in thoughts of your love casting me about again.

I have chosen to be nothing more than
the hand to pull you ashore 
and welcome you back home.

It is here, in the vast openness of my earth
that all things evil have died
and goodness rests on a bed of purgatory.

I subsist solely upon the suckle of a desiccated drop of 
                                                               Hope,
waiting for you to find me again.