To the Broken Earth I Speak

I broke open the earth
for the Eternal storied of a treasure entombed within.
Anticipation stroked my spine—I itched to find, to grasp,
to hold hidden gold within my hands.
I staked my nails into the ground and dug, dug, dug,
delighted—til my fingers stuck bitter, hard earth.

Now I’m stained in soil. Blistered. Bleeding.
Little more than inches beneath the surface—
disappointed and disenchanted.

I could lose sight here.

Forget the promise I sought. Lose interest. Go home.
Soak my limbs. Rinse the stain.
Cushion my days in stagnant familiarity.

It’d be so easy to leave.

Would it be as easy to ignore
the inkling
the itching
the gnawing in my bones
that beyond the threshold of my door
a treasure awaits to see if I am willing
to seek, to blister and bleed?

No—it would not be easy.
So, to the broken earth I speak:

I am willing.
I am willing.
I am willing.

I will stay—I will tarry.
I will reach deep into my earthen soul
and grasp the treasure I know I hold.

—To the Broken Earth I Speak