Dirt

Beneath, dirt
and in the air, in the water,
dirt.
We're mud, wet moving ash,
temporary bone.
Time will crawl
circles around us
with our closed eyes
so let's build into the air
clatter up the stairs
in our fleshed skeletons
fashion words from ancient trees
and rasp through lips while we can
before the leaves crisp, and crumble.

The sun will still beat us
tear out every color until only bleach remains
leach supple skin, brittle
yet that seed, poke a hole
tend tenderly, moisten, wait,
wait, wait until green snaps sun
into waiting veins
as though flowing sap, or blood
means anything in itself.

It doesn't
matter, only
love comes
from dirt