Soil

Organic,
not in the way of softness,
but in the weight of soil,
the way roots speak in silence beneath us.

Grounded,
Yet not settled.
A fragment among many,
each shifting beneath,
layered voices in motion
never still, never singular.

It shapes itself
by passing through others:
wind, skin, stone,
the glance of a stranger,
a sudden break.
It does not ask to remain.
It folds, splits, gathers again,
becoming not one thing,
but many.
Not alone,
but altered
by encounter,
by the friction of nearness.

When I touch it,
it does not return unchanged.
It leaves
something behind
a presence,
a memory of motion
on the skin of my hands,
on the tips of my fingers.
On the edges of my heart.

And I do not know
if I am shaping it
or it is shaping me.

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