Of dirt, and of blood, and of life,

The softness of a fossilized history,

Embedded underfoot and renewed each spring.

With time, greedy tongues yearn for beauty,

Turning clay for gold, for riches- for _more,_

Hungry for the gift of life and plentiful.

Human hands turn to plough and harrow,

Then to metal, and motor, and teeth,

All to gut the earths loam of her offerings.

A desecration of organic bodies,

A gluttony for her fruit,

The life has been displaced from this dirt,

And this time,

She will not return.