Are winter-bare trees,
rooted in the grey sky,
reminding us that we are
looking at the world
upside down?
That our help, our home,
is not the sky
but the warm dark loam
beneath our rushing feet.
That we are secured
and rooted in the
air we breathe.
In the breath
and spirit perhaps.
But we live, and work,
and grow, and die
in the dirt we disregard.
That the unimportant,
the grimy and unloved,
is where the life has always been.
For, after all, we are born
of warm breath
and muddy clay.
Don Lowe 