Gedichte zum Thema: soil

Gedichte zum Thema „soil“ auf Poets.by.

InspiriertDave Bonta

Oaks as Teachers

give me shade tolerance so i can worship the sun at a cellular level teach me the dance in abundance the sects of insects how to work like an artist’s model with wind or fire how to mine in place and turn the soil into an accomplice how to communicate with an alien life form in speech acts of pure energy how to grow wound wood
ÄngstlichDave Bonta

Insomnia

dead again the skull fills with soil a small busy mammal briefly inhabits it leaves an acorn behind in the brain case which awakens and can’t go back feelers root for the teeming light mycelia for neurons no eye but an owl
TraurigDave Bonta

Unnatural History Museum

pressed under glass the last goldfinch whistle slowly solidifies into earwax untroubled by looters who choose flashier artifacts from this dilapidated museum close to closing time in one diorama the leaves are already withering in another, farmers turn played-out soil toward the sun which is kept in a separate display case on the mezzanine right above the blowhole of a great blue whale
ÄngstlichDave Bonta

Smell Pox

I lost my sense of smell for just two days. When it came back, the first odor I noticed was soil, which still surprises me this time of year. When I was a kid, the only time the temperature rose above freezing in January was for a few days of warm weather toward the end of the month, a little false spring we called January Thaw. white clippings from my haircut winter garden Rachel went back to work after a ten-day self-quarantine. She had what might’ve been the common cold, though five of the other people who looked after the same special-needs person tested positive for Covid. That’s the hell of it, the not knowing whether one might be infectious or immune. winter afternoon moon
TraurigDave Bonta

How to Care

On the last day of April, Facebook gives us a new way to react: a care emoji. Yellow generic-person hugs a disembodied heart, perhaps the heart that absence makes fonder. But to older eyes, unless you squint, it looks like someone clutching an open wound. taking shelter under my umbrella mosquito
NachdenklichDave Bonta

* * *

building site the four-square mounds of unearthed earth
NachdenklichDave Bonta

The Hollow (46)

at the bottom of the mountain a small mountain of gravel riprap just enough soil for anise root where the hollow empties its silence into the gap old cellar holes locked gate stroking the touch-me-nots so they burst
NachdenklichDave Bonta

Walking onions

The phoebes across the road carry beakfuls of mud into their nest. Planting onions, my thumb- and fingernails harvest black crescents. This summer while I’m gone, the walking onions will re-plant themselves, head-down in the dirt.
FröhlichDave Bonta

Rain date

It’s the first petrichor of spring— that musk the soil gives off after rain, strongest when long delayed. So who wouldn’t choose a day like today for dancing? Side by side, cackling softly, the two pileated woodpeckers hitch their way down a tall locust tree all the way to the ground.
NachdenklichDave Bonta

Winter gardener

I was land-hungry in my youth. In the summer I turned soil and in winter hoped for snow— a Platonic kind of field, rich in solitude as any desert and as free of weeds, the leafless rose in the yard alone with its snarl of barbed canes.
RomantischDave Bonta

Love After 50

Love after 50 doesn’t make the pop charts. It’s too absurd. Absurd as ice cubes settling in a glass when one pours hot coffee over them, shedding their sharp edges. Absurd as the day-time ghost of one’s breath on a cold morning. Absurd as the smell of soil after a rain— why should mere dirt outdo all other odors? Absurd as grinding steel on a wobbly bench grinder with a corroding belt, that hair of sparks, the pleasant way they prickle against the skin.