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soil falls through my fingers like when I’m sorting through the pasta or the rice looking for the little bugs that seem to like wheat. soil, i return to you. soil, like stars, that concoction of everything, of dead bodies and dead trees and dead bugs, all ground into this rich red or black or brown mixture, ready to feed the next generation
By not tamara on 07.27.2009
the grass grows so beautifully. Reaching up to touch the morning sun, it stretches and stretches. Not enough. No matter how long it reaches, it is so far away. small, beautiful grass. you’re perfect just the way you are.
By Dana on 07.27.2009
Tom opened the door to his room for the night and surveyed it for escape routes and vulnerabilities. It was a miserable room, smelling faintly of sweat and old cheese. The sheets were soiled and fleas were an inevitability. It was a small room, lacking a window or vent of any kind. Dank. Escape was was not an option, he would have to set up wards. It was a nasty 2nd option, but it would have to do. He set down his bags, closed the door and set to working. It would be an hour or two in doing, but it would keep him safe, and there were no second chances in the game of cat and mouse.
By Matthew Eric Cohn on 07.27.2009
i like gardens and the black top soil that is used. it is rich in nutrients and the like. all the more to fatten up the vegetables and the fruit that is planted back there. one day we will all return to the soil in one form or another to be eaten up the vegetaBLES that are so nutritious to us.
By Aaron on 07.27.2009
a division of Identity Crisis, Inc.