Wind As Gardener

Nobody ever mentions the fact that Once-beating hearts now nourish the prairies grasses. Refusing to take notice of this, I’m busily Threading my fibers, splayed against the crossgrain- Billions of patterns exist, and mine seems to be all my own: But watering the roots, I discover deposits- In the end it is so mixed up- who can tell what remains Of the inate germ nature, and what sprang up From scattered seed, as the wind was Caressing the four corners of the compass? We are blown up into the air and then raked into the mud. If not devoured, we might become a great, steadfast beacon, Or a small driven twig, or only the dead-end Signpost on a road to a lost mine. Waiting, hidden, you might wilt away too soon- There is safety in the muck- nobody kicks you if you don’t Stick up. In the mine, it is as if you are already dead; Your heart will not nourish the sterile dust there, and the Diamonds are too brilliant to notice your small shining.