April 27, 2009

For the Earth

turning my compost,
the friable matter crumbles like
manna on my spade

working the dark earth,
a fertile fragrance drifts upward,
essence of springtime

infinitely rich, this
mud and clay and quiet earth
out of which we came

small wonder
we drift like windborne catkins
longing for return

this April morning
among the daisies and the sage —
I plant myself too