Even in darkness, small deeds shape the world.
🪱
The pale moon rises.
An earthworm’s quiet burrow.
Body shuns the light.
🪱
No fancy chorus.
It moves soil with its body.
Without wings for flight.
🪱
It hears loud footsteps.
Life pressing on its soft skin.
Learns not sounds of praise.
🪱
Roots sprout where it treads.
The soil recalls its labour,
But never its name.
🪱
It returns at dawn,
To the dark soil where it thrives
Soil’s breath now relaxes.
🪱
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 