Where is home?

It’s not a place. It’s not a thing. It’s not something I can touch.

Photo by Danilo Batista on Unsplash

I have this desire
to sink my hands into the earth.
Into the dirt.
Into the mud.
Crimson, mulchy, moist dirt.
Dirt.
I want your filth underneath my nails,
Rich, earthy, ground,
I think of you often.
Earth.
A remembrance
of some sacred bond
between you and me.
You are Mother.
You are Woman.
You are this body.
I am this mud,
this earth,
this nature
and I long for myself.

Underground,
inside the thick soil,
is where my soul lives.
Not in the sky, in some male god, in the clouds, in the Light.
Ha!
Not in that shiny white world.
In the dark, in the seed, in the root,
is where She resides.