This ground is mine.
I sweat it into growing.
My eyes water the sound
while my hands grasp
the dirt,
holding its generations
of dust and stone
with a blending of blood
curing the colors
making it good and right
with sweet aroma
passing through my hair
rich with oils
thick with black,
the standard of then
and the fuel of now
as my tongue licks at fire
I breathe a river,
filling my veins
with grit and sand
and the run off of man
hot and speaking
and smacking life
into ears that hear
that this place is my
kingdom,
my altar, my place of rest,
the jazz I see
and the jazz I own.
Roger Singer 