The earthworm

has no word for work,instead lives it,
hidden its service as is itself,
propelled by the same passion
that fires
the poet, the painter, the potter,
the soil steward, an apotheosis
of maintenance,
dredges, coulters and ploughs
to hold the structure of the earth
and enrich the sod with its shit.
by burrowing
it furrows
a network of several waypoints
to let in sun and rain
to induce the seeds
to unlock their pirate chests,
to birth bloom above ground
a landscape
of vegetables,fruits, flowers
unstained by mud
so pure their hearts-
a harbinger of hearth and home,
revealing the infinite
in darkness and dirt.



Poetry by yoonoos peerbocus The PoetBay support member heart!
Written on 2026-09-14 at 05:11

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