Tumble (Rachel Jackson-Lafayette, LA)

The swirling world so often throws

A twist in the path of the poet.

A trick to trick his feet in their progression.

A clump of roots rise up

And the artist grows entangled

He tumbles as a weed blown gently sideways.

He rolls, he tumbles slowly

As the grass accepts his body.

The blades running through his fingers.

Fibrous green beneath his nails.

The smell of virgin leaves

Wafts up through his nostrils.

Their chloroplasts dance gayly with the sunlight.

“O you funny blades,” he thinks

“You neither shave nor stab me."

You hold the ground in place with such persistince.

I'm sure your roots know intimately

The worms who live below.

Could you tell me all you've learned about their culture?”

He thinks of little tunnels wiggled in the earth,

Which the worms can sleep or talk or sing or think in.

Ponder to themselves

The purpose of their existence.

Develop myths that explain their brown surroundings.

Perhaps anguished or accepting of incurable doubts.

Yes the artist's fateful tumble

Becomes his very means

Of extracting art from the tricky earth below.