Staking Claim

The fat of the land
The idea enamors you
Living off of it's fruits
Perhaps the land, the dirt, reminds you of your own nature
Unevolved, unconscious
And unlike the beasts that ruled the land
Before humanity devoured it
You don't seek the challenge of the hunt
Perhaps you love the land because
Dirt does not challenge your place to tramp on it
The earth does not judge you

Yet you despise the fat of humanity
It's supple, comfortable nature
It's complexity, and uncertainty
It's weakness is what you hate
You love hard sinew, dirt, and sweat

You see me, and want to stake your claim
You see the dry, unfeeling, timeless parts of me
That remind you of yourself
And want to own the thing that you can walk on
Without judgement
Dirt
I am dirt
Billions of years of ground rock and minerals
Forced apart by oceans, winds, unknown and unexplainable things
Then brought back together
So complex
So simple
That is me
And you do not own meShe brims with enamor over the notion
Of the rolling curves; the fat
Of the land.
She forages through the land’s lovely crevices,
Prospecting for the offering of its fallen fruits.
The pristine, primeval soil lays dormant.
Like her, its surface is only stirred by
Sporadic storms.
Unlike the beasts that ruled the land
Before the cruelty of humanity devoured it,
She scorns the challenge of brutish pursuit.

The land is her darling.
It never challenges her place to tramp on it.
It cannot threaten her with infidelity.

The supple, comfortable nature of
The fat of humanity repels her.
Its complexity, uncertainty,
And the manner in which it moves, thinks,
And refuses to regard her.

She reserves the right to sink her stake
Into the gritty soil, the unresponsive regions,
Of others.
And only into the parts that allow themselves
To safely be walked on.

But the soil shelters something,
Rooted far beneath the fathoming of man.
Beneath its layers that are marked by
Innumerable manufactured years,
Hidden within its body of powdery rock,
And profoundly inexplicable parts,
Which were fiercely forced asunder by the
Fervor of floods,
The icy blanket of inclement winters,
Slashed and scorched, but never consumed,
By ancient flame:
A secret.

She, a mere sliver
Of rapidly disintegrating sinew,
Will never know
That the dirt of the earth
Won’t be owned.