Fresh Soil

This land

this dirt 

this soil beneath my feet

The one where worms crawl out when it rains

Their bodies writhing in puddles, they move

This land in which 

I bury my companions

I bury my customs 

I bury my history

The one where the act of living is sacred

And memories blow as embers in the wind

Like the worms discarded castings 

I do not own the moments I make

Left behind as we swim to fresh soil