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The Welcoming Earth It isn’t as if we were strangers to it, but the thought of living on it, riding lightly on the surface moves us to fear: feel the wheels below you sliding to the left, right off the road, so you might sail into the promiseless air, where nothing can be depended on. Two aching knees grinding their grave sounds, arching toward air and jointing down again, flat arched feet grateful for the feel of their only pride, confluence of perishability and the permanent, perishable world, the soil more solid than air, than skin even and the better if you throw yourself on all fours, prone, nose in the sweet, moldering earth, which you can’t do if you’re carrying someone else.
Laura McCullough | Mudlark No. 32 |