Fresh-plowed ground has a subtle fragrance. The dead of millions of years are in the earth, all the beasts and flying things, all the grasses, trees and bushes, all the bits and pieces of former lives. But the soil is not so somber as to be a grave alone. There are also Tinkertoy parts for yet other lives, a gift from the land just keeps passing around.
Plowed ground smells of earthworms and empires.
By Justin Isherwood
Easily my favorite bit of writing, ever. Appeared in Reader's Digest YEEEARS ago and when I googled it, I couldn't find it! I have a book by the guy but not the book this poem appeared in. I love love love reading this poem each spring and smelling the heavenly scent as it escapes the ground.