Soil
God says,
“You are soil,
not dirt.””
I talk to angels daily.
God relays this information.
“Find one scene every day
that makes you close
your eyes and think nothing.
There is beauty in thinking nothing.
Universes were created by me
thinking nothing.”
“Yes, God,” I say. “I hear you.
I will keep trying.”
I see things.
I hear things.
What does this mean for me?
Am I schizophrenic?
Or am I God’s special project?
Like soil and dirt,
It’s a matter of synonyms.
It’s a matter of
each person’s chosen terminology.
I once saw purple crystals in the air
at a funeral.
I am medicated now and I miss this
color in the air.
And God knows. God knows.
There is soil promoting itself,
hoping it does not get mistaken as dirt.
Soil is for growing flowers
and dirt is what gossip magazines dig up.
It also sounds better.
Dignified.
It’s not about labels,
but I am soil.
So much comes from me
just existing.
I see the dirt that doesn’t know
what to call itself.
I appreciate that brown stuff
that didn’t intend
to grow the flowers.
A universe is created
by the God who made me
His special project.