Wind As Gardener Poem by Patti Masterman

Nobody ever mentions the fact that
Once-beating hearts now nourish the prairies grasses.
Refusing to take notice of this, I’m busily
Threading my fibers, splayed against the crossgrain-
Billions of patterns exist, and mine seems to be all my own:
But watering the roots, I discover deposits-
In the end it is so mixed up- who can tell what remains
Of the inate germ nature, and what sprang up
From scattered seed, as the wind was
Caressing the four corners of the compass?
We are blown up into the air and then raked into the mud.
If not devoured, we might become a great, steadfast beacon,
Or a small driven twig, or only the dead-end
Signpost on a road to a lost mine.
Waiting, hidden, you might wilt away too soon-
There is safety in the muck- nobody kicks you if you don’t
Stick up. In the mine, it is as if you are already dead;
Your heart will not nourish the sterile dust there, and the
Diamonds are too brilliant to notice your small shining.