Our hands are built for digging in dirt
although we rush from soil to sink
as though wine-spilled,
time the only dam between
stain and the porcelain precision
of our unblemished boats,
as though we can learn more from
than the endless curiosity of laboratory
where organisms know enough to multiply
given space, one small advantage,
and permission to grow.
What would it mean
to let in the elements
instead of sealing ourselves
in immutable shells, impenetrable confidence,
and more often fear?
Nothing less than forgiveness –
a conciliatory embrace of our animal softness;
a return to the joy of dirt showers,
hands elephant trunking the earth over our heads, arms
rubbing the dry softness into our skin;
a ritual of rain shower dances,
running into the newness that signals change
we’ve been ready for,
open to, waiting
Bringing in the elements,
we remove beaver sticks of difference
we’ve used to claim our territory, stacked
to prove our unique break with evolution’s river, forgetting
civilization is a man-made pool.
Expelling the elements,
we divorce neighborhood from environment,
belief from instinctual desire,
bodies from breath,
ourselves from the fullness of being.
We return to dirt and rain
as to the tending of green shoots
pushing from earth –
so natural as to feel
to feel destined.