Grandfather used to say
Don't be afraid of good, clean dirt.
Bury your hands in the stuff that
grows our food and is our final home.
It comes from the stars last moments.
The death of the dinosaurs and all living things
that came before and after, make up
the fabric of our earth.
Each clod of soil is a history
of those who went before.
Our footprints crumble, to be blown far away -
even though the walker may never leave
the square of land that we call home.
The dust that lodges in my eye
is a particle of another, who's come
to remind me of my grandfather's words.
When I'm laid at last, in earth's sweet mantle,
will there, eventually, be a super-nova to fill my place…
or will I be a single grain of sand
in the hour glass of the gods?