I wrote a song for this black dirt running down the hill of the backyard in rain today. It made me think about all that dirt carries…so, I wrote a song for the dirt in the back yard on a hill today….i like it ok, needs some work on the poetry level and lots of editing, but the content interest me. See what you think, i’ll keep a working on it in the meantime, here goes.

I think a lot about the soil these days, and how we’re meant to relate to it. As I said last week the three neglected areas now are: soil (the earth), sight (the imagination) and skin (how to relate the physical body). Anyways, this one was about the soil part….hope you enjoy it, and may your dirt turn to gold one day, or something even better, and more fruitful friends!

Dirt Song

The soil today, in particular fading evening light, runs black in a late day rain flight,
as it often does after wet 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 her well;
And, 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 and day are, 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, be renewed!
Welcome the birds, and then just listen, for once. Not talk at, not use, not make money off, 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 glow from the back of soldiers meant for a king’s robe’s color, but
this is a type of silent groaning which weighs on you after a while, and you too just go silent, like vacant suburbs near malls; and, we
rarely hear that whisper call of evening, until it’s too late.

So, I try to listen into dirt’s silence until the light fades, and this day, at least
is finished.

I try to pronounce rest over us.
I try to say Sabbath with my being. But,
Night has already come, it seems. Or some turbulent darkness
has once again crept in.

Yet, at dawn today, in morning prayer, already there was talk of light breaking over us all, into and through us somehow.

So, I recall morning prayers again, and poppy seeds,
even while I’m watching this soot gather at the base of our tiny hill this evening, and the hens next door running away, in fear in all our backyards,
I’m still seeing, maybe in dream, maybe in night light, red poppies poking out their faces again from inside of
the black earth. And, I know what I saw in the light of prayer this morning! This prismatic resurrection
was already occurring,
even during the night while we slept in Silence,
despite us.