Time flows effortlessly here.

Standing at the edge of civilization

In the company 

Of nature’s toil.

The black earth beneath me 

Holds the wisdom of a thousand lifetimes;

It holds the story

Of death 

Of destruction

Of a chapter closed so long ago.

How ironic it is

That from death comes life;

From death springs forth the pokeweed,

Lush 

And inviting.

From destruction, fungi.

Teachers of the past,

Present,

And future.

From chapters unwritten,

The seeds of hope.

Sown so neglectfully

Yet tended to 

As routinely as the sunrise.

And so I am no longer.

I am that which bends and breaks

Against the howling wind.

I am that which bears its fruits

In desperate search 

Of solace.

I am that which will one day return

To the earth

I so carelessly tread upon.

I am but detritus

Waiting patiently 

To fulfill my purpose.