Eugene Elira
From ashes
I come from the dirt and I’ll return to the dirt. Worms fat from my flesh will die themselves and go back. The dirt is a womb craving
all life and often we labor with dirt, we feel connections with dirt — maggots and fire quickens the realization that dirt
is everything. Time raises civilization and turns it to dust.
We gather the dust — we reign gestating we are more than dust:
minerals and stones — everything we call precious has foot prints in dirt God made us from dirt. Scoured the earth for substance and mold us from dirt — I accept when I am treated like dirt — they see all its strength
J ames G. Piatt
The Burdens of Life
In a graveyard where the moon can only frown, birds eschew the crumbs of dry bones of the dead, dogs curve around the boundaries as they sense the odor of death, and humans oblivious of these things place flowers on tombstones to celebrate life: A blind silhouette of that which was slithers in and out of graves, searching for itself,
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