The Clock of Earth

Under the world’s weight, where darkness lies so deep,
The root knows no tick-tock, nor human calendar keep.
It counts no moons, nor time’s vast urgency to sweep,
But hears the slow rhythm of its ancient sanctuary underground.

Its hours are whispers of water that penetrates through,
Minutes, the tenacious fibers stretching in the soil anew.
Each season a breath, a sap that vibrates and concentrates true,
A grain of patience, a silent, eternal vulture view.

And its passing is history written without ink’s might,
In yielding rock, in sustenance that comes to light.
An eternity measured by damp, dark ink so bright
Of an earth that sleeps and renews each cycle with its sight.