Dear Earth,

In West Texas,
you swaddle the horizon in cotton—
ripe, ready, waiting.

Sunlight breaks like honey
across the fields,
and for a breathless instant,
your patience gleams.

This is your quiet magic:
the way you conjure abundance
from red dust and drought,
the way your stillness humbles industry.

Soon, hands will come.
The harvest will begin.
But for now—
this is yours alone.

With love,
—Cat Atom