When The Earth Still Whispers Poem by linus gerald

The ice did not shatter in a single scream—
it loosened quietly,
like an old promise
slipping from tired hands.

The rivers did not rise in anger at first,
they swelled like unshed tears,
gathering stories from forests
that once knew how to breathe.

We taught the sky to carry smoke
instead of birdsong.
We traded the patience of trees
for the hurry of engines.
And somewhere between profit and progress,
we forgot the language of seasons.

Summer lingers now like a fever
that will not break.
Winter arrives confused,
knocking on doors that no longer open.
Spring hesitates—
as if asking whether it is still welcome.

Listen—
the Earth is not shouting.
She is whispering.

In coral turned ghost-white,
in fields cracked like old porcelain,
in the long walk of a mother
searching for water
where a river once held her reflection.

But even now—
beneath asphalt and ash—
a stubborn green insists.
A seed waits for a softer tomorrow.
The wind still carries
the possibility of rain.

We are not separate from this story.
The smoke in the sky
has passed through our own lungs.
The oceans warming
have borrowed our heat.

Yet the same hands
that built the fire
can cradle the flame into light.

We can plant.
We can protect.
We can choose the slow miracle of care
over the quick applause of consumption.

And perhaps one day
a child will press their ear to the ground
and hear not a warning—
but a heartbeat steady and strong.

The Earth is still whispering.
If we kneel close enough,
if we quiet our wanting long enough,
we may yet answer
with love.