Yearning
This morning I dipped my fingers into the dirt
Twice I reached into the soil
Once it was crumbly, hard, and rough
my fingers scraped at the surface
moved little
rough rocks buried halfway stuck like dimes in concrete
Then, under a layer of fallen juniper berries and dried up leaf ends
dirt like sand
textured nearly as dust
dry as dunes
dirt I could move
dirt without the property of embracing itself
Where is the mycelium bound ground
musky dark soil
laced with decayed root structure
ah, to dip my fingers in fragrant loam
give the earth tiny seeds
where it will then weave mats upon the earth
leaves and flowers dense beside my path
Return, yes, to the roots
shady green places
of long ago
to call my own
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