Wormfood

You apologize to the hawthorn

For the scale of a shadow

Where the vines lay string through your grand piano

All to key a motif for the sad soprano

From mask to mantle

Trauma passes candles

Now reason dashed the gallows

Poor little songbird

Mistook a bundle of raw nerve

For worms knotted up and borrowed into the fallow

Just go and ask the apple

How one small worm can hollow the core

follow the lore

The roots lead back to the dirt

The worm came from

The earth-made sanctum.

All for the seed and the spore

That the apple tree bore

It’s the wild wild world that tallies the score.

You ever see the roots of the tree

Apologize to the well rounded fruit

For a balance restored?

Nah.

Get grounded…

You don’t owe the dirt

Not your grief nor grace

The only debt is sweat

Weaving wreath from earthen wraith

And when your tired hand

Holds the claim that it has earned

Be it soil-stained or scarred

Let it feed the worms

You apologize to the chanterelle

For upsetting the set earth

Scratch through the patches

And examine the guesswork

Try to not upheave the habitat in the effort

From the nest to the network

The war-hum spore spun wet work

That Unravels the nest-work

Poor little songbird

Swallowed by the maw of the moss curve

Reborn as an organic

Fold in the threadwork

Just go and ask a desert

Where fungus fans out in a thirst cracked keg stand

When the well runs dry the escape plan’s

A fail-safe jailbreak made to ensure

The world paints with the breath

from a sun smacked paint can

No base safe

When the nature made may stand

You ever see a seed or a spore

Apologize to the floor

For the way that it reshapes wasteland?

No

You don’t owe the dirt

Not your grief nor grace

The only debt is sweat

Weaving wreaths from earthen wraith

And when your tired hand

Holds the claim that it has earned

Be it soil-stained or scarred

Let it feed the worms

You apologize to the magpie

For a fate your hand did not fashion.

You bore no thread for the chain reaction

Just the footfallen tread

That stumbled past him

From ashes to absence

The grand abstraction reduced to a crass transaction

Poor lil' songbird,

Cradled in the palm of the gardener

To a hush-shaped hymn

Brimming quiet compassion

Just ask vast expansion

How deep run the roots of regard and concern

It ain't hard to discern

When you give it back to the earth

To no dirge

No reassuring words of worth

Just soft acceptance

The resentment’s is not something

For you to harbor or burn

You ain't the ark

Or the urn

You ever hear the song of the bird

Apologize to the food

When it’s the one perched over the worm?

didn’t think so

No

You don’t owe the dirt

Not your grief nor grace

The only debt is sweat

Weaving wreaths from earthen wraith

And when your tired hand

Holds the claim that it has earned

Be it soil-stained or scarred

Let it feed the worms

Return to dirt

and Way With Earth