Soil

internal destruction breeds
and precedes life, yet
I only ever noticed the beauty
each flower had to offer
forgetting the traces of time
embedded deep beneath the surface

do the soils feel such pain
as I do as we carry the future within us
together as unwilling hosts
to the beings not yet birthed
not yet breathing air alone

or do the plains of dirt
long to contain the procreation
of a waiting womb
searching for fertilizing substance
to fuel some future, unknown and still
nothing

an egg planted within
that never asked to be ignited
into pains of interior reconstruction
to accommodate another

the smooth, skinny flatland
not yet showing physical sign
of the rooted stem
but suffering sore consequence inside
is rid of its intruding plant
flushed out in pools of red
relieving the earth of mistaken obligation
free to remain
simply soil

 

 

 

 

Angela Bachmann

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