Poetry: Down

I am not opening up the store again, but does it matter?  Since I have closed the doors here, I have worked with more people than ever these last days and my email isn’t even here.  It’s just happening.

It feels different though.  They keep coming in from somewhere.  Okay, I get it.  I will work with them.  It has been great and full and free.  Okay…I get it.  There isn’t a place to go and hide, only internal places and worlds inside.  That is where I needed to get and there I am.

Poetry: Down

I dreamt of wet earth
and a man that is me
down upon it
for years.
I watch his aches
fall down around his elbows
and shoulders
and disappear into the soil.
His spine, supported by something
more solid than confidence
about twenty hands down
or more.
I dreamt of planting myself
and never needing to move
but living
with eyes on the sky
and ears for words of birds
and fingers twirling grass blades
carefree carelessly
like the way they promised
life could be.
I would aspire to be
the lowest
a servant of the ground…
a listener
who spoke Earth tongue
to those who wondered
where home might be.
Dew drops for breakfast,
sunlight for lunch,
evening fog for my supper,
owl hoots for dessert,
on the ground.

About skymeetingtheground

Healer, poet, author, yogi, single father...outdoorsy guy.
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