tired world

where does the earth sit when she feels tired? is there an cosmic bench on which she can breathe out deep breaths from weariness?

where does the earth sit when she feels tired?
is there an cosmic bench 
on which she can breathe out 
deep breaths from weariness?

where does earth rest 
when trodden and worn down,
when the spinning arcing looping days
have worn long wrinkles 
of brown and grey clouds
streaking north, south,
and every which way,
curves gnarled with age,
surface blemished,
atmosphere greyed?

when does the world ache her ache
and feel her weight?
can she give her wounds away
to the care of other worlds?
has saturn stretched its rings to her
or jupiter its moon
can mars cry red tears
or mercury sing a tune?
will the sun’s rays warm her skin
when dawn breathes her early morn
(a reminder of that molten strength 
boiling at the core)?

earth, your spinning face,
seems stern and wearing out

how and where and when and why
are questions full of doubt,
i wish to take your soiled form
and wash it white as snow,
yet there’s only one place of endless rest—
maybe we both can go?