Sifting through the dirt; creating a small space
In which to sow a seed or two: this is how Truth might be found.
Displacement oft creates some new space meant
For the head of a flower to be brought forth from Earthly womb.
And from her divine and floral scents do we know her to be True.
And True it is, that Earth, too, shall die.
And Time will take her Time with each of us;
Will cause our bodies to sink into themselves, creating a small space
In which one might sow a seed or two. Time is deliberate, slow
In how she poisons us with urgency. As we age, she runs from us;
Makes our eyes strain and our egos decay
As we seek to catch up with her.
But she is always there, wrinkling our paper skins with her flames
Quietly; paradoxical, really:
How, the more that time proliferates in her expiring for us, the more
We find that the two of us cannot escape one another.
And there comes a Time for most of us when we find
Ourselves on the brink of her subtle displays of engulfment,
Consumption – first by the earth.
And then by Truth, who necessarily reveals herself to us
When she is done.
And True it is that Time will end; the seeds of we are sown
By inevitability thrown, into the small space that Earth makes
For us as a second embrace. And True it is that
There is something True out there.
But those Truths that we have come to know – that we have built
Entire Truths upon through Time.
Will they, too, come to bloom?
Or are we just here, on spinning Earth, and on her personal menu,
In bored anxious anticipation of her swallowing us whole?
Nay, for Earth’s maternal arms, which have carried us into this, our being,
Are still maternal arms upon arrival of these, our Timed departures:
When Mother Earth allows for us to rest in her accommodating embrace
And all the while
Time and Truth put on their coats and grab their keys
And get ready to take us to some place called Home.
Sadia Ahmed, 2019
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