Dirt for KickingThe fantasy subsides.Dirt for Kicking by glen
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Oh Lord, the man that fell.
To dirt, to a patch of drying, shifted ground
nearest a wooden tract and nothing
where barking wind and that pine rot stink,
they never quite die out.
Widow woman is dragging her feet, digging
little, jagged lines in the earth
with her worn out, black shoes.
You can feel her trembling breaths,
see her low-closed, dripping eyes.
But did you ever
think about the white, wheezing cradle
bowing, forth and back, without a hand?
Can't you taste her fear, grandmother screaming
A rock is all that man is now! Child, let it go!
A stone really, she thought, being covered by the dead needles
that make the brush grow outward,
like the hands of a clumsy child.
The child grew too.
Her legs grew able, her hands grew tight,
like weeds bound to her grandmother's failing wrist.
They breathe the pine together now, and they walk
rigid, sad steps in more expensive shoes,
past vases and wreathes,
to the overcast stone.