In the Dirt of the Earth

In the dirt of the earth I lie

covered in moss and daisies.
They blanket me and so I rise
against hard arms of gnarled roots.

Safe in my bed
under white covers in which
I hide and close my eyes but
no darkness is granted.
Because the sunlight still streams --
still sings, and sighs contently
onto where I lie
in the dirt of the earth.

In the dirt of the earth I dine
eating the patches of green.
With my friends in the wilderness
here to keep me warm and brave.

My friends, they dance
around the open flames. Flickering,
fade.
Here our ghosts feed on smoke,
yes, charred remains on burnt tongues
tasting the hollows filled with grey
in the dirt of the earth.

In the dirt of the earth I sleep
breathing deep into the snoring sun.
Not even the whispers of beetles
can wake my claying skin.

In the dirt of the earth I dreamt of days
where the dirt of the earth
did not stain my face
but washed away the ash
that painted my cheeks
not red, not green, not white,
but grey.

In the dirt of the earth I rest
my bones, but the winds of spring cry life
as though my heart could still warm to the home
that I found, not in dirt of the earth
but the dirt of this ground.