I kneeled to the ground,
my hand pressed dirt onto
its clean soft surface
as pieces slipped between
and dripped back
to the common bond,
the relation of stones and boulders
and glaciers shearing
at the land,
leaving mountains unhooked,
forming unstoppable streams into
pulsing rivers, curving, carving,
driving under then rising
to the surface with gems
and dirt mixed like men with
colors
and hair tossed by wind blowing
into noises at night,
singing through branches,
thousands of voices
like shadows without faces
as sounds circled like storms
banging and slapping heaven
into a wide lightening
of starless nights
putting shivers into souls
gathering around fires
where they left their
inheritance in the ground
below me.
Roger Singer 