It is not often I can say that these days

It is not often I can say that these days

Dig me in

Turn me over

With a spade

Sieve out the lumps

Stones come in all sizes

Old bones

Disintegrate in time

Let the blood

Of my body

Soak into the ground

I am earth

Insects will flourish

Worms will devour

The loam will nurture

A bounteous crop

Feed me

The fruit of our labour

We are the inheritors

Of our own sacrifice

Both parent and child.

Anoint me with oils

Cleanse the dirt

From every crease

Smooth away

Any blemishes that remain

All that is left

Will be released

Into the damp earth

Seeds of life

Bedded in fertile soil

To blossom anew

On the morrow