Dirt don’t hurt. At least it’s’ not supposed to.
Yet pestilence and famine stare down my brother,
Steals nourishment from my mother.
…and back to the clay dirt,
Fashioned on the potter’s Wheel by the architect of the four corners of the universe;
In the triple blackness of Ptah before the first verse.
The possibilities swept up in a spiral vortex,
restricted to the confines of the matrix;
Life is about the process.
Four sides of the cube; North, south, east and west.
Nun, Geb, Shu, and Tefnut.
The man, the lion, the ox and the eagle;
…the Angels and the angles to boot.
Carbon, nitrogen, oxygen and hydro;
a few trace minerals to go.
…and a pillar of salt.
God made dirt. Dirt don’t hurt. At least it’s not supposed to.
Its’ all in the soil. Getting to know myself made it worth the toil.
In the fourth dimension of the time and space, striving for the fifth. Along the way I spit out the pith.
It no longer serves me. I’ve peeled the skin and eaten the fruit.
Nourished from the root
Sheila T. Zimmerman ’22