Turning, turning

It's a challenge to remain on indigenous soil
and not turn the sand to aerate a heart
and plant a new seedling of love to be
that one day will grow fulsome and free.

But I never met the challenge well;
I turned and turned again
for this land is hard, inflexible,
and the groundwork never done.

Days and nights, months and years,
turning, turning, mind to heart
sifting sand, removing rocks,
to end up with a blistered thumb
not green by any means.

No balm to ease the sting and burn
when he who would relieve the feel
walks a line above the ground
spaced out and not entwined
with the dirt of mother earth.

‘tis just the kiss of love required
to placate and educate
the muddled up and muddied
people of the land!