I lay on the grass,

Face pressed on the earth

Above your marble urn

And let your soul

Flow up through my body-

Leaving my skin tingling

 

The grass beneath

Connects me to the earth

Like hundreds of tiny sticky anemone fingers

 

Your soul flows through the earth

Expanding radiantly in all directions

From that marble box

Which sits not three feet beneath the earth-

So close,

But yet so removed somehow.

 

Like a streetlight at midnight,

Your light flows through that marble box,

Through the earth,

The dirt,

Which has made all of us.

 

To the grass,

Which trembles in the breeze,

Sticking to me like an epiphany

 

I feel you here

In this resting place

This place that I’ve come to rest now, too

Resting my head on my hand,

Watching.

 

Snot

Drips down my nose

In long, strong clear strings

Falls on the grass and sits beaded against the soil

Like sap,

Blood that falls gently from a wounded tree,

Runs down its bark in rippling, shiny lines

Before dropping gently on the earth

Where it stays for a moment.

 

Sometimes it falls

From higher branches,

Plummets with increasing momentum

Before striking the ground

With a distinct splat.

 

My tears fall faster now

A dripping faucet

Nudged slightly to the left,

Not a rushing torrent-

Not quite.

 

Earth,

Dirt,

Soil.

 

Soft, 

Light,

Warm

On the soles of my feet.

 

Small imprints

Are left behind

On this dusty, soft, warm road.

 

Your imprints 

Are left here, too.

Somewhere they lie

Beneath mine

Somewhere beneath this earth,

Surely not three feet down,

Not quite so far.

 

I would walk

On this road

Forever.

 

Feeling this soft dirt 

And warm mud

That squelches up between my toes

In the low-down,

Hanging

Sort of places

 

I will remember you here

Especially in these hollowy,

Hanging,

Low-down sort of places,

Where breath rises from the land,

Sweeps off the lakes,

Drifts from the marshes

Bounces from a little wooded hollow

That we used to play in

When we were little-

When you were here.

 

The breath from the land

Rises swiftly in a gust

And rushes past my face,

Pushing my hair back from my face,

Making my toes tremble,

Exposing my skin,

My face,

Me,

For what I truly am.

 

The lakes tremble too,

The trees dotted on the horizons,

The green pithy reeds to my either side,

The birds waver on their precarious perches on the reeds.

 

The birds don’t stop singing,

The reeds don’t stop wavering,

The cows don’t stop munching

Or blaring their voices around

The walls of this pasture,

Their voices don’t stop at the walls,

But carry farther.

 

This valley

Doesn’t stop breathing,

Gently heaving small clouds of dust,

Dirt-

This dirt which has made us,

Made me,

Touched the tender surface of my foot,

My toes,

And yours too,

So long ago I can hardly imagine,

But yet not so long ago.

 

Your toe dust 

Lingers with mine for a moment

In the air

Before settling again,

Somewhere off into the distance.

 

Soon our toe dust

Will linger with others

As well

Small toe dust perhaps

Or large toe dust

Or paw toe dust.

 

This toe dust

Will forever shift

In this evolving world,

This changing scape,

That we are strangely aware of.

 

Those birds

On those reeds

Won’t stay there forever,

Sing forever,

But more will come.

 

More will sing.

 

This dirt,

This toe dust

Has made me,

Has made everyone.

 

As I gaze off

At the horizon

At the gentle hills

That I can’t quite make out

I realize

That I may leave this spot,

This patch of toe dust,

Wander off on other soft-dirt paths,

Or perhaps ones made of bark,

Or pebbles,

Or sand.

 

But the soles of my feet

Will remember the earth

Where I came from

The place where I rose up,

Where I discovered I was strong.

 

I will mark this path,

This sleepy little furrow in the earth,

Leave toe dust for others to wonder about,

Perhaps even remember.

 

Then,

Set off

And discover more soft trails,

Scatter my own toe dust,

Where the breath

Of this valley

Can’t reach.