Archeologists of the Soul

Somewhere

ages and ages

hence,

archeologists

digging through the

soil of the earth -

not so deep as to pierce

God, the Great Underground

River, just into humus 

at the level of the topsoil 

and the subsoil - 

will strike on

some pottery we have made,

or some paintings we had put forth

in our caves of regression and

survival, some tablets

of stone with our legacy

just before the end.

Images that tell the story of

the crumbling of the living.  Images

that share our Great Dying.

Images that reveal the

short lived and deeply

pervasive greed.

These archeologists of

images will piece them all

together from across

the globe.  Slowly.  A shard here;

a stroke there, a phrase 

opening up their minds.  Finding 

hints of our weather as it

changed dramatically.  Discovering 

the great wars for 

water.  Uncovering 

trees and their barren 

ecologies.   Revealing

mass migrations of peoples

across the skin of the planet -

everywhere.

Stumbling upon the images

these archeologists

will become

archeologists of the soul -

of the Great Dying 

of soul.

They will bring together strands of 

what we felt, strings of how we

thought, threads of our deepest yearnings.

They will know just what the

weave of  our lives looked like 

in our final generations.  Looking

at the warp and weft they will 

see the truths we uncovered. Truths 

we had hoped were lies.

Perhaps then, the feelings they

unearth will weave a message of respect

for all life.  For the organisms in the soil and in 

the sky.  One of wonder at the life of rocks 

and the breathing of the stars.  One of

amazement at the whisperings of the

mycorrhizal network.

The feelings we modern people

forgot existed.  We homo sapiens

disregarded.  Dig archeologists,

dig deeper so you may build on

our absence and mend the planet.

Take it to higher heights

than we could stomach.

I cry out to you from the

shavings of humanity left

broadcast in the dirt; I scream

to you to hear my croaking.

Learn from what you found

and heed the cry 

of the mitochondria:

"Each of us vibrates to make the 

whole.  We either spawn regeneration 

or we produce apoptosis."

Please hear my cry and 

harken unto voice of my supplication.