Song for the dirt today:
The soil today, in particular fading evening light, runs black in a late day rain
as it often does after rain mists just before sunset;
not, perhaps, on its own volition, but it seems
the earth is under
forced labor to know itself these day. And reminds us of something
systematically culled, plowed, churned, overexposed through years or poor tending, not listening to well,
with our bones all mixed in it, swelling in half song, half moan, forwards, now waiting for something to turn us both into gold, or something more precious than we think we are;
more precious than metal at least.
And even the fields, out back, have forgotten their names by now-that one
for instance, used to be called “watermelon borough”. The hobo men used to jump off trains
just at the sight of all that glowing wet glory, with potential watermelon red fountain within!
But they too now have
forgotten how to return on their own, to prize true treasure, to unearth their own nuances, memories of yielding; or purposes in time. We all forgot our names, so cannot name.
After a while, even this dirt has amnesia. I need to talk to it again-tell her of her potential
wet her nutrients again.
Recall the poem clay is, and will be. God looked at dirt and saw humanity. Saw the shape in the clay beforehand. So, this is
the least I can do. Tell my backyard, she can still sing life! Welcome the birds, and then just listen, for once. Not talk at, not use, not make money off her, not even try to make her sustainable, just listen. Be still, and know.
I try to recall the Belgium poppies for hope-to visualize that crimson golden mustard smeared red growing from the back of soldiers, meant for a king’s robe’s color, but
this is a type of silent groaning weighs on you after a while, and you too go silent like vacant suburbs near malls; and, we
rarely hear that whisper of evening, until it’s too late. I try to listen into dirt’s silence until the light falls, and this day, at least
is finished. I try to pronounce rest. I try to say Sabbath with my being. But,
Night has already come, it seems. Or some darkness
has once again crept in.
Yet, dawn, in morning prayer, has already started breaking over us all, into and through us somehow,
even while I’m watching this soot gather at the base of all our tiny hill
in all our backyards, I’m seeing red poppies poking out their faces again from within
the black earth. I know what I saw in the light this morning! This prismatic resurrection
was already occurring, even during the night while we slept in Silence.