Earth
The soil is from Wall-Mart,
brawny and rich as sweet tobacco.
Driving home
bag of dirt on the back seat,
aromatic atoms of fertility
pop unseen.
I tip the bag
wonder at the rich darkness
yet there are mushrooms of light,
galaxies of milk-spinning germs.
It tumbles through my hands
like mane of brown horse.
A muscular earth
that douses fingers in a laving of loam.
I feel the child-lings, the pods,
I know if I sprinkle rainwater,
the wombs of impalpable virgins
will fill with promiscuous
prayers.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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