Quickwords Vol. 2 – Soil


Welcome to the second volume of Quickwords. Let’s do some digging.

Soil covered in many chips of brown tanbark shines in bright daylight.

| Under |

Trodden by bare feet that irreverently appreciate its chill
Soft in the role of the reigned who,
with knowledge of inevitable victory, refrain
Lapped faintly by the warming rays that we prefer to take
It gives the same mercy that I give the dust that floats
in the air beyond my eyes

I do not know how I ended up here
Torn, frayed maps on beige, freckled parchment give me a how but never one great enough
They explain to me my path in the same inadequate way that a substitute teacher explains that
i is an imaginary number,
the square root of negative one,
but omits why that makes it imaginary
Perhaps everything is

Perhaps I mistook the stains on my shoes for dirt gathered in my run
Not in my fall
Perhaps I mistook the warmth around me for the light of the sun
Not the embrace of the earth
When the clouds appeared and mired the ground, I failed to
see myself slip
And as mud coursed over my body, I remained staring at the
narrowing gap between the clouds

Then there was a point in my sinking when I could no longer see
all the soil piling above me
I discerned its presence only by its suffocating weight
Temperature became a factor irrelevant
Or perhaps indetectable
Time vanished where I could no longer see the journey of the light
Where my chamber alluded, eluded, the dark of a
seductive, forbidden void

I am under, and I am trapped in freedom
Freedom of a different flavor than what my tongue has acquired
but perhaps a new taste necessary for a different growth
To consider one’s self a singular seed, I now believe, is naive
I am a trellis crafted into the shape of a man
And as I lay here, in the murky, cold, dark, with
a number of my unsprouted seeds
Finally, they begin to germinate

| Dirty |

Break from the ground and wash it off of yourself
Where you’re going, it’s best to not look dirty

I wonder
Our gentle green stems become rigid brown trunks
So many of us wear the colors of the soil
The irreverence.

| Smaller |

Sometimes I think about what it would be like
To live the life of the sapling sprouting from the earth
Being a modest, miniscule part of an innominate world
Each granule of soil would be enormous to my nonexistent eyes
Each fallen leaf from my elders would be humbling
Each bug an animate citizen of a natural empire
Each raindrop a lake gifted from the sky
Each day of vivid sun a lifetime of unmeasured time
There would be an indeterminate peace in my life
My perspective would find comfort, see the things around me as normal
The soil and leaves and bugs and raindrops and sun
Everything would seem normal, relative to me
So sometimes I think about who or what thinks about
what it would be like
To live the life of a simple human growing up in an ordinary world
Who knows a different soil than the sapling that they imagine
but, in the inevitability of it all, imagines a smaller life
Unthinking of the beings to which it has the smaller life
Sometimes I think about that

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