I was born from the dirt.

The roots converged,

the soil rose up,

and the vines

entangled

to form

who you are hearing speak now.

I was born from the grit of the sweat

that fell from the toil

of the laborers of the ground I came from;

The curses

and blood that dropped

and absorbed into the loam.

I was pushed up with the clay

and baked

and hardened by the sun.

What am I?

Do you know?

Daily

I walk

through the canopied trees

of the forest

and observe as two people find love,

two more find death,

and three more find hope.

Who am I?

Weekly

I traverse

through the farmer’s field

and watch as he breaks his back

and bleeds

and curses his land and livelihood.

I watch

as his children run

through the grass

and flowers

and jump

into the creeks

and lakes

and rivers.

Monthly

I sneak

into the hidden tunnels

and corridors of the wealthy

in dusgust

as they dine excessively,

only to vomit it up and

choke

on their coins.

The torches burn

as visitors ride in on their steeds,

sneering at the farmer

and his work horse.

Who am I?

What am I?

Do you know?