What would I learn

if I listened closely to the Earth?

If I laid down, first lowering myself

onto hands and knees,

prostrating myself 

until my stomach and soft cheek 

kiss the ground? 

If I press one ear 

into the grass,

would I hear the business

of the creatures who live there 

and learn what it’s like to see

a single drop of rain fall

from the tip of a bright green leaf?

If I sunk my hands into moist, cool soil

could I coerce it to give way

in handfuls of rich, thick blackness?

 

Tell me of the lives that have walked this land

of the ones who baked bread and bricks

who hunted and read the stars

followed herds and rushing rivers to the ocean.

Show me their stories 

sing to me the rhythms and prayers

of those who slept and fought 

and fucked and worked

and hurt and strived

and felt and laughed

And played. 

 

One day, my bones will join them

in sleep well beneath the surface 

of modern life.

For now, I excavate–

listening to the voices 

that rattle and whisper 

inside my own skeleton

And see that I am the time capsule.