The silt in this muddy glass we’ve been stir stir stirring
has finally begun to settle. It simply needed for stillness,
and a regular portion of gravity. Brownian motion aside,
the inescapable pull of earth on its tiny descendants in this vessel
Wins out over the chaos of fluidity, until it becomes apparent–
the difference between the transparency of the cool clean aqueous medium,
and the opaque denseness of that which has finally fallen out
of what looked like a solution.
I have to learn to return this earth, by being as careful as I am brave,
to the dark ground it desires. So I ever so gently decant
the fresh water into my gaped mouth, let it caress my hoarse throat,
quieting all these needless words. Then barefoot,
I will bring the slurry that remains out into the garden
where we will transplant bamboo from my my first life,
and from the first part of my second life.
Once there, in the heat of the rising sun,
I will scoop it out with my fingers, smell the chalky brownness,
then plunge my hands deep into the soil.
I will pull them out clean, leaving that mess in its new home.
Where, instead of obscuring, this distilled product,
purified of noise and regret, will begin its second life,
just as I have mine, nourishing hope, adventure and honesty.