All her planets are in Earth signs.
She is rooted like a tree to the ground
while I—restless butterfly—am never
still or quiet. I weave nests through
her branches, use her leaves as camouflage
from danger. A tree, this tree, holds steady:
no need to roam the earth
when one is Earth.
No search for solid ground
defines her. Fire is anathema while water
flows freely within and above.
Air only is lacking in our
mutual space. Without air,
no respite: we choke and
claw in futile struggle.
For the pleasure of standing beside her on Earth
I would on occasion do without air
but she needs none of the elements I offer
and prefers to go on breathing.