Dirt 

The Last Word

I bend down

between green blades of rye to ponder the dirt

and the ants marching to and fro,

carrying sweet morsels down

down beneath the earth

like soldiers on a trail to the Western colonies.

This earth is my manifest destiny.

The earthworms lay claim to it all.

They are kings of the humus,

layers of silence slowly enmeshing the

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exudate of roots,

bodies of the fallen,

fecal matter of swifter creatures aflight.

I feel down

beneath green blades of rye to ponder the dirt

and the universe spilt out before me.

A grand conflagration: protozoa and microbe, bacteria and mycorrhiza

battling to the ultimate, inevitable death.

A billion unspoken souls waging holy war

in a teaspoon of jet black soil?

I look up at the sky,

back down at the earth.

A hundred thousand times.

I remember only how small that world is,

that teaspoon of soil

slowly dissolving in the rain.

A small puddled remnant of precipitation

gathered in the heel of my bootprint.

And so it is with me.

A farmer amongst the deepening night sky,

and the gathering of stars.

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