Sowing soil Who will read these fugitive phrases? Wrestling on the harshness of cold ground. Wriggling between burdened bark cracks. Squirming in a thorny cradle called comfort. Does the field long to receive my seeds? Or has it sentenced my sentence to the stone-book of unwanted pain? Verbs propel from cords into cochlea. With them my life-stream breaches intimacy with unwontedness. Each adjective: a sharp knife, cutting into a sacred shrine with sightings of a peculiar world. Descending like dragon fire, Taking away fear-shielded safety, Burning the ground into molten agony. To heal what is hurting, when what hurts is center and home. What will happen to my seeds? Wind and the weeds, will swallow them, prune them into soil. Soil that could feed giant shade-giving trees. I speak to sow soil.