To The Ground

Underneath the grass
there is a voice I’ve heard
whisper only occasionally
but long enough to notice
that among the twigs
and stones, roots and branches,
lies an altogether undisturbed
reality unknown to us,
a bridge to a certain recognition
that we are not alone,
that our utterances take shape
in the form of frail bodies
huddled together in the cold dark
of what cannot be seen,
what cannot be touched with human eyes,
but penetrates our existence
with a force that reckons us
to banish the grace from sight,
to only know the turning curve of the earth
when we can see ourselves among the dirt.