Beneath the blue sky of a spring day,
I take a handful of dirt out of my garden,
cool, crumbly, damp,
the matrix of growing things,
and contemplate the cycle,
from green plant to compost back to soil,
over and over,
the history of life.
When I think of my own mortality,
and consider the cycle of earth to earth,
there is part of me that is comforted
by the great chain of being,
and part of me wonders
about all the metaphysical meanderings
tied up in the miracle of dirt to seed to plant to dirt to seed.