clods of earth
slowly creeps
the marrow of my soul
- moving -
always along the
lay of dirt
in and over
and among.
Swimming in
its primal bath
it knows as home.
The feet,
the feet they tread on
and on and on
the clods - up
in the ardent ascent of
the rugged, rugged mountain
of the tit of the divine.
When I am on the
dirt and on the climb
I am feeling my me
as full and strangely whole.
The rougher the clods and
the steeper the climb
the aliver the feel.
On, push on,
and up. Always up.
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