We are dirt, leaves.
Niche teeth, like bamboo.
All grains are “ancient grains”.
On the hill, with her feet in the mud, her tears were your tears, blood running down her cheek as the sky grew dark.
There was a time when the stones were as children, huddled and shivering.
Grey boulders, covered in lichen, facing the wind.
Bright light. Dust and hair, settled beneath the sofa, beyond the reach of the vacuum.
Once, that steak stood and wondered, slept and dreamed. Then… whoosh!
Yes, even that damned plastic casing for which you need scissors to open, buried in the “junk drawer” with the rubber bands and paper clips.
Someday, this sun will set for the last time, though there will be others which rise elsewhere and bring new light to the tiniest houses.
Until, blowing, scattered and cold.
You are dirt, leaves.