Fresh Soil (4.10)
Decay has never smelled so sweet.
Bury my nose in the bag of “leaf soil”
And inhale deeply
Breathing in microbes, rot, and
The promise of roots writhing in happiness.
Just give me the dirt
Under my nail beds, into my pores
And wrap me in that rich smell of death offering life.
My euphoria easily bests
The pleasure I felt at buying the plant in the first place,
Though there is the secondary joy
Of realizing that I’ve made both our days
With a single purchase.
A man strums a ukelele.
It’s a soft and sturdy tune.
His white service dog works hard at not being distracted by the wild sparrows fighting over discarded pastry.
To his own music, a boy runs under the jacaranda trees.
He’s been told to catch one on his head.
Something about Canadian mythology.
Purple blooms fall sporadic and soft,
like the strains of music
casually edging the corners of the courtyard,
mixing with the single spout fountain
underscoring the reprimands of hungry birds.
Away, inside, commuters pace, buy, sleep.
Out here the contented vagabonds waiting
For the next train to arrive.
The boy leaps high, his nose touching a falling flower.
Calling this triumph, he sits beside me
And asks if I was watching.
I think I might be running.
In fact, I know I’m running.
Far and wide I’m running,
But not away from you.
It’s just the world is calling.
The forest floor is calling.
The mountaintop is calling.
They’re promising a view.
So off I’ll go a’wandering.
From here I’ll go a’wandering.
To there I’ll go a’wandering.
How much I hope to see.
And when I come returning,
With bruises blue returning,
Brimmed with tales returning,
Please try to forgive me.
Oh dear – between illness and work, I have been not doing a good job of getting this place updated on a daily basis. Shame, and eternal shame, nothing but shame.
(That’s strong, but Shakespeare understood words, Man.)
Now then, on to the process of catching up!
2.9
Drinking Haikus
Let the world turn on.
I’ll trace the full equator
Around my wine glass.
Rusty flirtation?
Clearly you did not drink your
Social lubricant.
He drinks whiskey neat.
She loves frills and twisty straws.
A perfect bar match.
2.10
Waking up
I had an unfortunate dream about you.
There were no giant catfish.
There were no one-toothed gypsies.
No, you soothed my troubles.
And though I was the harbor master,
And mistress of the manifests,
It was you that calmed me down.
I say unfortunate
because I awoke feeling peaceful.
Knowing full well that you
– the real you –
The you I would see
Was not my subconscious evolution of you.
No safe harbor to be gained from you,
But no squalls either.
My mind was calmed by the idea of you,
Yet you do not sail with me.
You are as distant as the lighthouse,
As vague as the foghorn,
And I cannot fathom you holding me
for longer than the three seconds
between my coat and the door.
Sleep deceives and dreams belie
The soundless depths of men.
2.11
Asking for Forgiveness
Asking for forgiveness
Forces us to look at the callouses on our souls.
Looking to faith hurts
Because we are hurting
Scared that we might not be healed,
That we may be hurt again,
That we may hurt again.
And we will.
2.12
New Earth
To feel the promise of life,
One need only run fingers
Through the decay of the fall.
That rich, cool promise of nourishment
Squishing between one’s fingers.
There is no time for dirt like spring,
When all life is waking
On the bones of the last season,
When Mother Nature is tossing her muddy head, exultant in the thaw!
Let it get up under your nails
And rub into your knuckle creases!
Enjoy it! Revel in it!
For soon it will turn into the cracked and hot summer dirt
And lose a fraction of its glory.
At least, until next spring.
