Eyes on the Ground

Eyes On The Ground

My only spurt of energy spent by noon,
I sloth about in the dirt of what hopes to be a
Vegetable garden by late July,
In May it’s a barren womb,
(Though we call it the garden nevertheless)
The patch is studded with soft gray stones,
Their edges’ curve, slight and sloping
Their ends poke out of the ground like thumbs
Of hitchhiker corpses looking for a ride from
Here to There, I lounge among the appendages
Of dead tramps and dream of the growth to come
From a careful cultivation, elevation of culture
Raised on grain, God and a strong work ethic

In this garden, I only think about the way others think
I can be an expert on experts and know
Nothing of how to raise a seed or myself
I can reprimand hands of farmers who
Hold arms and pitchforks above their heads as they
Slip faded brown points of their shoes beneath
The dirt of plowed land to make you believe they’ve
Grown from the ground themselves,
I could write my own Thinker’s Almanac to predict
How reliance on the same old soil will leave a plot unfertile
As if salt pillars had crumbled and coated the earth
I would tell them not to plant seeds and waste water
On irrigating old ways of survival

I would do all of this but I really have no sense of anything at all.
It’s only within this allotted patch that I pluck leaves of certainty.


kt


(I like seeing these mini-Dillinger Escape Plans of creation from everyone's thought vaults....md,jp,pm....where the rest of ya'll at, still lockdown on msnbc?)