earth, soil
millenia of death reconstructed into the embryonic stuff of life itself!
But it can feel so cold.
Along the creek shore
Butterflies no longer ****
from the succulent soils
They are cold and damp and dormant
And still we step in this,
This stuff of life!
But sometimes
It is pressed gray powder
It matches the matte
gray sky
and it would seem that
life has ceased...
but remember,
always remember,
the spring
that is soon to come.