The kettle moraine is formed through glacial drift,
like a metalworker dapping into the Earth a rise and fall of soil—
hills and valleys, peaks and passes, covered with green growing
things.
An aged log cabin, built solid, stands stoic on one such hill.
I dig my feet, bare, into the wet summer dirt—a grounding technique.
It is here where the wild hastens time, marks seasons, nurtures
nature
into bloom; prairie fires flower with their rich ochre, rusted petals;
bluebells sway as if to chime, a sea amongst the verdant tides.
This earth raised me, and to this earth I swear I will return.
I am made of mud;
sculpted into shape like clay.
—tender little thing.
