Soul Of The Earth
Our Little River’s buried alive
by bulldozers cornering their prey,
this source we guarded, are still
tied to beyond human memory. It
strung our beads with a thousand bubbles,
floated us over sands and troubles,
laved our long arms as we gathered willows,
made and remade by the river’s wiles.
Passerby, you are more solid, more transitory.
Now we wander farmer’s fields,
fingering damp spots, fretting over
muddy places near the culverts
it was forced into. Metal haters,
posing as a thistle bush, or briars,
we’ll snag your pant legs. Passerby,
in your pale, weedy garments,
can’t you see us churning the air,
as if it were water into an addled haze?