Aching, groping, fingers curled
Buried deep into the dark
Warm and moist loam.
Hoping to grasp the secret
Rituals of her remembered seasons
Of growth beneath expansive gloom.
Slowly now, I rubbed her essence
Into my clean and open pores,
Searching for her healing
For life's red and puffy sores.
She, healing me...quietly,
With each grain of time honored memory
And the remnants of a hundred kindred souls
Who once marched across her beautiful face;
Seeping their rotting molecules
Into this secret, sacred place.
How dark the soul, how green the growth
and warm the sun upon my lips,
I whispered to the waiting, silent ghosts.
How sweet the fading daunted mind now slips
into agreed upon forgetfullness
Lest we all remember the sullen, fragile hosts.
How soon we join her sared womb
And add our contributions to her store,
How soon our bodies rot within her tomb;
Do we rise to sing once more?
Celebrate each day above the ground
For once the body's lost to death
There's no more reason to be earthbound.
Copyright © Chula Fleming