The soil I now pick <br /> <br />contains fragments of the dead. <br /> <br />They once saddened and happied themselves here <br /> <br />turning to the sun and moon, quite puzzled <br /> <br />then taking things as they came, <br /> <br />for granted. This is hard brown laterite <br /> <br />that I turn, <br /> <br />to plant a few bright periwinkles <br /> <br />stolen from the mound of one long obscure, <br /> <br />dead. They should grow well <br /> <br />here. So I turn out <br /> <br />the millipedes curling up <br /> <br />ashamed of the sudden expose <br /> <br />into dark ring stones of sapphire and topaz. <br /> <br />Pinned to sudden light they have all coiled up <br /> <br />in abject surrender. These things we bury back <br /> <br />with pushed up soil, crushing strange roots <br /> <br />going everywhere like soft nerve fibers, <br /> <br />sending messages of thirst to strange <br /> <br />destinations. Each scoop of mud <br /> <br />brings more life to light <br /> <br />lost like death underground <br /> <br />doing odd jobs, ordained like saints, salient <br /> <br />in dark recess drawing salary in kind. <br /> <br />Mud-work is a kind of work ship. <br /> <br />A silent thanksgiving for a home, called earth.<br /><br />Gopi Krishnan Kottoor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/digging-10/
