Dirt

She's in the backyard, now,
close.
Under shady canopy, the debris-y grass,
rustling in the bushes
where hideous insects pray to old toys in the dirt...
Castoffs from a previous civilization, I suppose...
Like me.
She's going to find me, it's inevitable.
Will I be revered? Will I be feared? Or shall I
be passed by, in all ways unspectacular, confused
with the very dirt from which I birthed?

CC

There's a rich legacy in the cold weather trees,
the dried mud, the worn tennis shoes,
the stormy Autumn and the even stormier
fall...
Golf courses clutching onto their green,
white clouds stained with rain.
Cars lining curvy roads, parked and backed up
for miles...

There's a narrow, winding tributary
winding through the Midwest.
A travelling circus, a ribbon in the wind.
You might miss it;
keep your eyes peeled.
It could be
right around that corner,
or getting on the bus to go,
or all around you; dense, in the air, completely engrossing and enveloping
not fully realized until it's fully
gone...
So go.
Go for a walk down the track,
do it while you still can—
before you know it, it'll slip out from under you, gently
in the night,
finding a new life to light up,
and new stretch to
wind down