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
[…] Weapons of Soil […]