Soil

Dark as a shade of night,
Moist to squeeze the wetness out.
My fingers a sieve –
Splinters of wood, perchance a mighty tree.
Glinting pebbles, a mountain long ago.
Tiny bones, gossamer wings,
A frog, a firefly perhaps.
Ages of life running through my fingers.

© jsmorgane (Jan 10)

Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *