Ode To The Soil - I Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

Soil which be
A little more than dust
Yet you produce
What dust does not produce
Stares
Looking in your face.

So many thing
Glimmer in the
World's Way:
Outrunning you
By far:
But flop producing
That which you produce.

In dust with boiling
Waters soaked
Life thriving in
The genesis you find
But in the soil
Not so?
And
Do they fruit and herbs
And flowers sprout?

In dawn
You have a color
For you be fine
With all sorts
Of color:
In noon as the day
Grows
As yet other colors
And
Then declining colors
From afternoon:
Change upon change
Color on color
To pale orange by
Four in lazy afternoons
Then
Growing orange more
In the weak sunset
Then
With beauty tinge
The cheeks of dusk
And pining eyes
And
The fast-reaching
Reign of the black
Night.
The stars pine for
You
And to you desire
Many a time
To descend
With their fire.
The moon likewise.


In dust with boiling
Waters soaked
Life thriving in
The genesis you find
But in the soil
Not so?
And
Do they fruit and herbs
And flowers sprout?

But in the night
Unnoticed most
You thrive
With graves opening
Shrouds and ghosts
Escaping and
Others from trees and
Other places coming
All lank, all
Rattling bones
And
Then with their laments
And yearning
To the bones
You yearn
And
You lament
Though nights at time
Be starless
Though Dawn at times
Rise dread
And confounded:
The hisses that arise
From time to time
In you
Clear the blinding mists
And the confounded
Calm, make straight
Deep into the nights - and late