I want to ask the world where it came from.
I’d say “hello” and ask its name
and who named it.

I would ask what language I should use to speak to the world.
I’d ask it what its first language was:
the chattering of raindrops
whispering smoke
or the slow drawl of molten rock.
I’d ask how long the silence was.

I’d ask when the earth first felt the passage of time;
when it defined years and days in its own words,
and when it started counting them.

I’d ask what it thought of the sun,
whether it’s trapped, hatefully, in an endless orbit,
or wants to be closer
because the sun is the brightest thing in its world

I’d ask what it thinks of the moon.
I’d ask what it thinks of me.