We are broken
We have forgotten the feeling
Of dirt between our toes
We drove horses across this land
To sit and watch miracles happen
The sound of corn growing under the sun
The smell of winter from pine trees dancing upon the wildflowers of spring
Our hands are clean, nailed polished but not to ponder poems and art
We dress to hold up social egos and dances in the mind
Our country was a place of building and watching fields give food in love
The land of the free.. the home of the brave
Brave enough to hear the voices and cries of fellow man and stop in its beauty lending a tear and hand
These voices are commercials for ego
these fields once painting from the soul are passed at high speeds in fossil fuel metal covering us from it's scent
Our souls are like the trees, once a language beyond words spoke to us now are known only by a label, some to stop and talk about and never allow to devour us.
Our art music, love passion and dance has turned to icing empty of cake
We are the universe pretending not to be the depth of everything...perfectly.
The pendulum has swung to it's very thinnest edge
Richness has died
This poem, it's last spark
Last ember to relight
A boundless fire
A canvas that holds this story is always there watching
Turn and look, the soil awaits.
Photo by my friend Scott Glinka