The earth calls to me, as if I am meant to be resting within the soil, covered and cradled in dirt, the bugs and bacteria devouring and feasting on my flesh, my only material possession.
The earth calls to me, as if my breath is meant to be taken by the wind, passing through one moment and another with no claim, no homestead, no fixture.
The earth calls to me, as if the dew drops that paint the land will also paint the soles of my feet, the souls that carry me from one life to the next.
The earth calls to me, as if I am meant to be in the trees, the leaves wave at me, welcoming me like family into their branches.
The earth calls to me, like a mother's voice, the one that assures the baby, "You are okay, everything is at peace, there is nothing left for you to do, you may rest."