Friday, June 15, 2007

(brief) ode on a ball of Belizean soil

Thou morsel pluck'd from cool earthen bed,
Amidst the brown, orange, and yellow strata.
By some childlike wonder her hands were led--
More this than donnish quest for data.
What tropic biota slumber within thy shape
Rolled to rough form 'twixt pale, muddied palms?
What dessicated nutriment waits still to dissolve
From hardened sphere to foreign, temp'rate soilscape?
Life was not quash'd for souvenir taken without qualm,
For Earth's embrace knows no bounds and mighty worm absolves.

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