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By John I. Blair

What does the soil
On which we’re born
Do to our souls?

The soil on which
We live, on which
We set our feet

When we are children
Playing, or farmers,
Gardeners sowing seeds.

I grew up in a river valley
Where soil was brown and warm
And plants sank roots deep.

In my childish games
I got that soil into my pores
Not to be removed by baths.

It left its trace
Some place in me,
Don’t you suppose?

©2016 John I. Blair

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