Crypt & Crib

author’s note:

Soil music.


CRYPT & CRIB

Sensing I might’ve lost
something valuable
in the dusty shadows below
I decided to descend.

So began years of tedious searching—
of gathering back together
the many parts I’d discarded.

Knowing the difficulty
I now want to help others
who also struggle in the dark.
But the little I’ve learned for certain
they probably already understand

which is:

today, we have no suitable rituals
to help us navigate the passageways
of our subterranean life:

we must be our own undertaker
we must be our own light
we must be our own midwife.

A dream showed me a baby
in the tunnel of a crypt:

a glowing grub-bug it was—
shifting through the dust
as it crawled along—
finding lots of odd bits:
chips of flint stone
and skeleton bone
as well as a few jewels.

All of it provided nourishment
for the infant

so the child kept expanding—
filling the tomb

until finally, up above
the earth of a fallow farm field broke open
and my dazed head sprouted from the womb.

But the next morning
I awoke to the same barred crib.

Yes
this old baby must gestate a while longer.
Must grow more.
Must devour those jewels
and the better side
of everything else I discover
in my dark depths.

At least I know I’m not alone:
witness the many perennials at labor—
determined to be reborn.

mythsteps · Crypt & Crib

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