"Turning the Soil "

The rusted spade 

slides deeply into last 

year's summer soil.

Fertile loam turned 

over, scattered leaves 

buried with roots 

and stones. 

A rite of spring,

an age old tradition.

Turning the soil.

It smells of ancient 

nature and decay.

Deeply fragrant, sweet 

and damp to my 

senses and memory.

Each mound lifted, 

exposing fresh ground.

Repeated motion,

following each row.

Turning the soil.

The garden rake glides 

across clumps, roots 

and loosened weeds.

Sifted from the reborn 

surface. Pulled, 

discarded, separated 

and removed.

Almost completed.

Dirt and sweat combine.

Turning the soil.

The earth is now ready.

The stage has been set.

Metal cages rooted for 

August's tomatoes.

Trellises tower over 

cucumber plants. Waiting 

to be covered with green. 

Nature is remade.

Another season begins by 

turning the soil.

The End 

"Memorial"

A field of green,

clipped and groomed,

rolls across the landscape.

Stark white markers,

named with the fallen,

lie in perfect rows 

to the horizon.

Little flags salute them,

tucked neatly in the soil.

They flutter on the 

lilac scented breeze.

Scattered flowers and 

scattered people roaming 

amongst the stones.

The silence is overwhelming.

Everything muffled on 

this solemn land.

A place of peace for 

those sacrificed in battle.

A place of rest for 

those ravaged by war.

I can almost see them,

faces too young, 

heading so far away.

Generations all represented.

Different reasons why 

they all had to die.

The ceremonies have started.

The traditions of 

old soldiers and wreaths.

Comrades in arms will gather.

They come together each year

to hear the bugle in the 

distance and to cry.

The End 

"Sleeping"

"Sleeping"

Greg Budig 2020

Finally quiet.

My mind has stopped 

its chatter of endless 

questions and doubt.

I submerge into the 

numbness of slumber. 

Eyes closed.

Hands open as my 

weary limbs stretch

suspended in space.

Vulnerable and alone,

resting in the silence.

Breathing deeply.

Hypnotic, measured,

cleansing breaths.

Rising and falling 

in peaceful waves.

Time to exhale.

Mind set free.

Images blurred in 

black and white.

To dream is to fly,

 to search,

 to wonder.

Passing time.

Hours lost moving 

sweetly in the darkness.

Worries no longer 

involve me, I am 

exempt from life.

Set free.

Mind and body at 

blissful rest at last.

Recharged, refreshed,

reborn, relaxed.

Peacefully adrift.

Sleeping.

Something so 

simple but so rare.

To function, survive,

life's exhaustion persists.

Close your eyes and rest.