Transform

Sometimes, when I dig into compost, I try to understand the universe—I know, but it’s true.
I try to understand that this hollow rhizome I hold in my hand,
once an iris, emptied by worms,
motionless,
“dead,”
is no less alive than me.
That here, where the sun shines on my bent-over-back, and I feel the warmth of it,
that here in the Present is not just a passing feeling,
but some glimmer of
Truth.
The sun warms the soil, seeds sprout, I consume them along with star particles,
super nova dust,
and somehow
I live and
breathe.
That this planet is explosion inverted, star catastrophy united into soil, water, rhizome, worm.
I am, literally,
dust.

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