Shoes thread lightly
over freshly stirred soil.
Seeds are no longer singular cells but shoots
and this hardened carpet no longer compliant
to cover up.
Sometimes we plant with the dream
Sometimes we dream in the hope
of being woken.
light begins in the dark
where roots rumble in soil, now stirred.
Green grass decides, at last,
to admit that being buried
was only the beginning.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly