Grounded

Dugout, pithouse, cavehouse, burdei, yaodong –
each a calling back to the world
of whirled earth, of square and honest plantings,
each born of dirtscrape, turfscrap, cow dung.

Whole towns dig down to the roots of things:
Mangup-Kale, the Goth’s submerged city;
The Barrio of Guadix: where old maestros
di pico still tunnel today, lost in their earthing;

And Cappadocia, home of rock-cut temples,
their daredevil majesty stamped on stone. Inside:
a dim, cool, sacred space, underhanging on arches,
columns, frescoes. I have stood there, simple

in my joy, an Antaeüs, clay king,
cheeks dimpling at the dusty thought
that spiritual strength arises
from the earthen fact of things.