Like teenagers who walk ahead of the parents who embarrass them.
we pretend the ground underfoot is no relation,
wash our hands of it with water made pure by soil;
eat soil and sun and wind and pretend it’s some other thing called food.
Like a two year old who has learned the power of no,
we deny we depend on what we stamp our feet on—
soil, who keeps a grave and humble silence,
always waiting, below.