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Weapons of Soil

We turned the earth over in rows

Removing rocks

Breaking chunks of clay

We composted the past and stirred

When they came for us

We marched and toiled

Longing for the days of seeds and

The times we had hoped for rain

It’s not our battle we fought

We were turned over the earth in rows

Weapons of soil

Carving territories

Engraving lines to define

Our stained hands longed for the dirt

For something simple and straightforward

We fought to return home

When we got there we found it was gone

Weeds and salted earth

Barren

The trees majestic were stumps

The wood turned to ash in fires which

Never warmed us

So we huddled next to the ruined forest

Weeping in the cold

Would that the story be over

How we persist in misery

Roaming to find a fertile place

A peaceful pond or

A clear flowing stream

Something to nourish us

Something to nurture us

Someone to welcome us with our ghosts

We put hand to blade and hand to plough

The work is never done

The work is never done

The light sparks and sputters

We sing to the tinder

Until the soft winding smoke wisps

Into a frosty night

Small flickering flame rising

Here come the horns and flute

Thundering hooves and the call of an owl

Weapons of soil gone feral

Wild in the wood

To create something new

To bring forth that which was left behind

When we left the wilderness

The spirit wells like a rising river

There is a surge as the tide rushes to shore

The moonshine insists

The sun never relents

The face of the earth changes

We turn the earth over in rows

Composting what we once had needed

To grow a fresh crop

From new seeds

crop photo of person planting seedling in garden soil
Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

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