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The Land of Our Bones

Donald P. Goodman III

Version 1.0,
I see trees with their roots plungéd deep in the land, intertwined both above and below, and the greenery spread out so thick and so grand tied together with all things that grow.
And the water which falls to bring life from on high and makes soil to erupt all in green, and then goes to refresh itself high in the sky to return to the world's growing scene.
Just so there in the shade of that great yellow pine, there my grandfather's body did go, where we planted him, shaded from glare and from shine where he'd sat in his youth long ago.
And his bones joined the roots of the trees, and his flesh joined the soil that they draw on for food, and his blood joined the water to clean and refresh what in turn gives its life for his brood.
And our bones are his bones, and our flesh came from him, and our blood flowed from his veins to ours, as it springs in the depths of the forest so dim and the fields full of sun and of flowers.
And whate'er be the prize for his long years of toil, here his life, and our lives, e'er abound: where our bones very literally make up the soil and our blood truly waters the ground.