Where the poet speaks best

Where the poet speaks best

Soil, compost and sharp roots, 

They stain my hands and nails with their earth and my own blood 

To return to the work I call my first, not my first love

But might as well have been 

For now I long to return to the innocence of the fields 

To feel the dirt in my hands and know that what will grow was because of me. 

Stinking of sweat and earth  I return to the center 

Meld my mind and exchange ideas with a friend I know but so much is left unshared 

He rips open his shirt, exposes his heart and his life  

Only in ways that I know could never be mine or that of others. 

These are his words, his experiences, his loves, successes and failures. 

A lifestyle and passion that I wish I could understand without realizing my path is mine. 

Rich in love and tragedy, as if the soil that fell through my fingers and the poison ivy that stung. 

The scars, tattoos and memories show me who I am, 

And who he is, and where the poet speaks best.