Much of the life of a plant goes on unseen under ground in the root system. I suspect that most of the good work in humanity happens largely out of sight…
Undergound Man
Won might not see me
As I am
In this whirled
Blow the surface
Down at the plant
Awe of the time
Being grounded
Rooting
In liquid life
Connected to above
And though in the dark
Made of light
Till
Under ground, man
NOTE: This poem’s title, “Undergound Man” is a bit of a riff off of one of the most iconic existentialist characters from the writer, Fyodor Dostoevsky. This poem is an alternative to the alienation and shame amidst ironic egoic superiority that typifies existentialist narratives.
