A FISTFUL OF BLACK SOIL

Here,
look how our palm
forms these clods,
how the unmade loam
crumbles back into us,
how we settle ourselves
into our once forgotten earth.

The white corkscrewing roots run down the whole length of our body
and pull us deeper down
deeper down than waking
deeper in than sleeping dreaming
deeper among the disassembled ground of our own interior.

Small things; dense things; burrowing things.
Creatures worm back in through and out of our body.
Compose our body.
We feel the warmth of our belly stone eroding
the witless cry to be transformed.

We rain.
We thunder.
We clear.
We shake the last separate drop off our vestigial fingertip.

We dream ourselves back
into our saturated garden
and we make it shine.

And, here comes the wildest first seed blowing on a random wind.