Underground

In the land of perpetual night, no moon flows across the skies. There are lakes and rivers; small and large; some flow for hundreds of miles and more.
When we, of the surface, sink our hands into the warm earth of summer gardens, carefully tuck soil around tender roots of geraniums and daisies, we move into that world, the world of roots and earthworms. There the trees bear no leaves, yet have trunks and fine, fine hair. It is where the mushrooms sleep among strange grass and shrubs, dark and moist and fertile.
We call it ground and speak of being grounded and we farm the land. From that land we coax the spirit of our bones and teeth, the vegetables that break open the secret treasure of precious minerals hidden there. Calcium and phosphorus, copper, gold and manganese.
At night we sleep. We sink deep into our own beginning. We come from there, below the day crust; below the bright. Out of sight we play in the endless theatre of the mind; earth mind.
In the land of perpetual mind, no moon flows across the sky; no stars. But it snows. It is the snow of shade, of the hidden and when we wake, we bring some of it back. On our shoulders and in our hair; melting dreams. Snowmen frozen by sunlight and shrinking; legless and sad, saying: See you soon; goodbye. It was fun, goodbye.