Once in the realm of the soft, supple earth,
A woman worked, toiled in joy and mirth.
She shaped the world in her hands so tender,
Creating life with a touch so slender.
Beneath her fingers, the secret it kept,
Of nature’s whispers while the world slept.
In the heart of the yielding, malleable loam,
The woman found her truth, her home.
Her work was ancient, as old as time,
Yet ever fresh, like spring's first chime.
An art of patience, of love, of birth,
Of unearthing mysteries from the dirt.
A child watched her with innocent eyes,
Curiosity blooming under the skies.
He plunged his hands into the tender soil,
Mirroring her love, sharing her toil.
His fingers danced, unshaped and free,
Carving stories for the world to see.
He shaped a bird, a tree, a flower,
Each minute seemed but a fleeting hour.
The woman smiled, her heart aglow,
Watching the child as he bent low.
In his hands, the world took form,
In the play of life, he was the storm.
This is the tale of the woman and the boy,
Of the soft earth, of sorrow and joy.
For in the hands that shape and mould,
Lie the secrets that nature has told.
Through woman's work and child's play,
The earth speaks in its subtle way.
It whispers of life, of death, of strife,
Of the endless cycle, the circle of life.
In the heart of the pliant, yielding sod,
Lie the secrets of nature, the whispers of God.
Listen closely, and you might hear,
The earth's story, told far and near.
