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Poem

Fruit 
of 
the Earth.

Fruit on the tree,
strong connection at the stem
Retain a yearning,
The buffet that nature is
We dwell not to think that nothing doth feed upon dust,
Yet the rocks nourish the wind
Who feed so slowly— its like the obverse of light speed,
As it picks apart form, 
to form sand,
Like that in man’s made hourglass measuring time,
And we may measure time by suns overhead or moons under feet,
And you are eternally exhumed to once feed the living, once you are dead,
But you never die,
The crisp rigid bones, the soft flesh,
Rigid
Soft
Again,
To be exhumed,
The perfume you create for flexing nostrils
Short moon-cycled vibrant creatures yearning to resurrect the energy Nature’s sun has stored in you.

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