The gardener chose the Soil and
the Soil was good.
The Soil could have done without, but
saw their gentle way,
How they tilled Her fertile body with
their own calloused hands.
In early Spring, they arrived with bulbs
and seeds of all kinds
And sweetness with which to plant them.
The gardener dug
Neatly lined pockets to fill with seed,
singing as they sowed:
Oh, my dear sweet Soil, how I wonder
what we will grow.
Soil swelled with new sprouts by day,
turned bitter by nightfall.
She feared the gardener would claim Her
sproutings for their own.
The gardener returned faithfully
with water in tow,
Massaging Soil’s scalp and plucking
pests from newborn leaves,
All the time singing: oh, how I wonder
what we will grow.
Soil had become weary of all the
gardener’s “we’s.”
They had not grown a single thing, merely
tended to Her seeds.
She cried to the dry sky for rainfall
and the clouds did weep.
On the final day the sower returned
to the Soil,
She had grown a mouth with which to speak
and swallow them whole.
By then, Her sproutings had grown up to
the gardener’s knees.
As the gardener began to sing,
Soil folded them
Into the earth, despite their muffled screams.
She began to sing:
Wind finds tree, acorn finds the ground,
rain hits soil
And we grow grow grow. Seed rain and soil –
need no sower.
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