I heard the earth drinking today.
A March shower came through this morning,
the kind that makes me impatient for
spring, the oaks full
with their jigsaw leaves and soft moss.
My backyard soaking up rainwater made
the same soft, muffled snap-popping
as the miraclegro dirt does when I water
my pothos. Somehow I assumed
it would be different magnified on such
a scale—the whole world gulping.
I imagine how it looks
under there—liquid pushing
air up and out
from beside the roots—like bubbles
of oil and vinegar shaken
together.
Each complements the other,
but the two never exist
in the same place. A connection shared by
absolute trust and complete knowledge.
I listen to the ground.
And all that friction sounds
to me like a bowl of rice krispies in milk
but quieter.
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