The fixation of my hands
is upon the soil beneath me.
It calls me to nuture it,
thus I immerse in its moist nature.
Even the worms collaborate
in this messy downward journey,
softly lingering through my fingers.
Dirt and chaos everywhere,
as I penetrate the chosen spot.
The mycelium awaiting patiently
the arrival of the unaffected seed.
“Spread the news to the Mother Trees!” -they say
“this naive carapace has now entered deep.”
I comfort it with a blanket of mud,
hoping it feels tight and snug.
I carry myself away from the little one,
trusting the light will dry up its tears.
The days pass,
and soon a crackling sound
awakes my eyes.
Is it already time?
I rush to the garden,
encounter nothing but a sad sob.
What is it you need my tiny little dot?
“I need you to hold me, I’m breaking apart”.
A motherly…
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