Child of the Soil

Image by Couleur from Pixabay

A nascent little sapling
Entrenched gently in my mind.

A sycophantic paean
I tell myself to help it grow

Upwards,
Where it might rid itself of

Sunlight or rain
Humidity or season,

Upwards,
Where it might be free from

Fertile vitriol
And the pilules that had defined

Its growth, in the past.
I am not my dalliances with

Corrupt soil.
I am not a product of internecine

Illness, for I grow
Despite the harsh rays of

Starlight.
I grow for the sight of

Words in the sky,
Far beyond me

But I realize I sense the
Earth in its beautiful

Fragrances,
That remind me:

“You are more than the
Small figment you reckon

That you are.
You are the shore that

Grows relentlessly,
Reaching for your roots.”

Inside my head,
Mother Earth continues to sing:

I hear her,
And I listen to the crashing

Paroxysms of being a little,
Tiny, and infinitesimal

Beauty.
That is worth growing

To the ends of the earth.