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Poetry of 2006 by Donna Flood
Dirt


The soft soil showed
Man’s efforts employed
Large earth moving machine,
More than I’ve ever seen,
Where their giant ridged tires
Moved over anything that mires.
The sandy soil was easy modeling
Opening up like baby coddling.
Even my foot sunk to make a track,
Gave in easily with no flack.
What boulder granite were you?
Little sand particles more than a few
Would you be so hurt,
If I simply called you, “Dirt?”
Do you wish to be that boulder again,
Proud of yourself to your friend?
Don’t mind my observation
Where along the banks, runs the reservation,
You must know I feel your flowing river water,
Moving along without relenting or giving quarter
If I could be as determined as you,
Dissolving a cliff that tries to hold true,
To some other’s lost world already in place,
Walk me across the water nymph’s face.
My heart is weary and tired,
No longer talk of winning fired.
If the waters are burnt siena mud,
Little ones who are a flood,
Wait patiently for some tiny triumph, tho’ few,
And roll along slowly, as deliberately as you.
The great Creator promised his attention,
Well that I remember this, my friend.
So, you see, tiny particles, just dirt,
We all suffer equally a hurt.


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