Soil

i sit here in my walled garden
with the sun reflecting off the mortar and wood.
between the shallots and the garlic, i take my place
and thrust my hands deeply into the soil, up to my elbows,
allowing the elements to suffuse me.

down further i reach, through the roots,
past the corms, past the tubers, past the mesh of feeders.
i burrow with the nightcrawlers and beetles,
and feed on humus and clay.
my clothes fall off and my skin is scoured
and finally cleansed

i ruturn to the surface, into sunlight
amidst a patch of sweet potato.
i breath the air again and sit entwined by the vines
like an ornamental dwarf, monk, or gargoyle,
deep in a quandary.