I Am A Heathen

Someone remembers the fields of pumpkin and corn beneath the paved streets and houses.

I am a heathen.

Someone remembers the wild grass meadows and oaks along the creeksides beneath the fields of pumpkin and corn.

I am a heathen.

Someone remembers the mammoths that once walked, and the tides that once claimed beneath the wild grass meadows and oaks along creeksides.

I am a heathen.

Someone remembers the mountains that moved and the foundations of bedrock forged in the fires of ancient creation, beneath the mammoths that walked and the tides that once claimed.

I am a heathen.

Someone remembers the dark matter roaring and floating midst fire and ice, its body of chaos slaughtered and shaped by ancient Gods, far beneath the mountains that moved and the foundations of bedrock forged in the fires of ancient creation.

I am a heathen.

Memory goes that far back, beneath the cities, beyond all colonization, even to the foundings of the very planet, and all the gifts of benefaction, fathers and mothers of flowers, meadows, forests and flocks of every wild fish and fowl and beast upon the roaming plains spilling out tumble-bumble from the rent body of Ymir as Frigga spread her emerald garment rippling around the spinning globe.

For I am a heathen.