You ask what happens when we die,
I say the weather’s fine and the soil’s warming nicely.
You ask how to make good garden compost,
I say yes, that’s it exactly.
What’s it? you want to know.
I say the dirt between your toes, the ever changing clouds.
You say you hate to leave it all behind.
I say try this shovel, it’s the one my father used.
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Categories: Sweet Sleep and Bare Feet
Tags: Attachment, Bare Feet, Be Here Now, Clouds, Compost, Death, Gardens, Identity, Life, Play, Shovels, Soil, Spring, Toes, Weather, Work, Zen