In the Time of the Full Worm Moon

christy claymore

I worked the thawing soil where weeds determined to win ground before tulips could bloom. Despite the gloom of early March, threatening flurries and frosts, crocus already beamed yellow, and beneath some slightly plowed evergreen moss there burrowed an earthworm, the first I’d seen of the season and its wet was a kiss to my fingertip –small wriggler humbly bringing forth life. Humble, common-enough, ugly, gracing mud puddles, compost bins and small, curious fingers, reveling the rainy days, a March moon given their name as their plain existence signifies the rebirth of the earth.

Their work, mostly unseen, churns up green and every color, otherwise— this is worth commemorating in the skies, the first full spring moon will rise: the Full Worm Moon not as sweetly named as April’s Pink Moon, but, oh well, the Earth and its worm also bring about pink and it is good for us to think on these things.

And as the worm brings about life, it does so by mingling with old autumn leaves, rot and dung–– it is good for us to think also on these things. More polite about its work than the fly, not one bit of flesh, dust to dust, returns to earth without the worm, the skilled undertaker processes death to reincarnation.

And with more news of death and the sight of trenches on TV screens flashing live with ammunition, I can’t help but focus on the mud on knees, mud on boots––it’s dirt that brings up trees and it’s dirt that steadies roots but it is also dirt that takes in the youth who die fighting their elder’s battles. The young face death most violently as the untimely is most severe, severing potence from potential, motion from trajectory, a horizon fading too near to be enjoyed from afar, the dying of a star before its glow can reach the nearest planet.

Have we grown softer than our grandparents and will we be ready in spite of withholding, or wanting to, our own children–– let’s not sow that seed–– growing from the traumas tattooed into our very DNA.

Let no more irises burn with war smoke, or dispositions bend to this arc. We will beat swords into plowshares, we will cultivate rather than deploy, create rather than destroy, we will dignify ourselves with peace, such humanity elevating even the subtle alchemy of the earthworm.