Lord, I love this earth.
I am as the roots
lifted gasping into air
when the wind wins
over tenacity. Not quite at home,
but not divorced from my true purpose,

still. I would crawl back
into that damp and good-smelling place
if I could. I would like to lose myself
in the soil.

I do not belong in this world. I do not
belong indoors. In cars. I do not belong
to this race of misery and glut. Will not.

I love this earth. I am
a nestling fallen from my nest,
beset by brightness and sharp cold.
I belong to the sky.

I do not belong in these hearthless houses,
with senseless light that hides the stars.

My body is built of dirt and death
and meat. I belong to the soil. I belong
outside, with a sheen of sweat upon me,
bugbitten and sunburned and

I belong beside the fire
with a useful task and last summer's harvest
content in the cellar and

I am fierce in love
with this earth. I am built of nothing
but this earth. I am as a root torn
for a moment
from its grasp, and thinking
that I have lost my way.