With a mental spade in hand,
I broke ground in a volatile land.
It is the sort of tale we often forget,
when suddenly life simply won’t relent.
I crossed over into a forgotten meadow,
only to find I’d still carried a shadow.
There is a reality in knowing the right word
to help move beyond what we might think absurd.
It is a choice,
While the atmosphere around us seems trite,
there is a powerful settling in dirt contrite.
Seems the space may no longer feel quite clean,
once the reality of our lives become serene.
Oh stop again,
for the dig.
Seems the further inside the realm of disdain,
less easily is the worker’s ability to complain.
Seams in the environmental cause will display
while every last item of loss has fallen his way.
Though the earth has a forever sort of fallen ground
gives credence to the prison in which we are bound.
We cannot ever escape the tone of the suddenly frail,
its competency so built upon retelling a scorching tale.
Instead we dig, we do try to compel a story,
written by ourselves to discover just what glory
lies in the dig,
we fall victim to knowing time is a circle, a place
whereby all of our insecurities likely keep pace,
in search of a likely capsule.
The ground itself in however it may swell,
always uneven, one might never retell.