A bit of carrot dirt. You are warm and dark, tilled brown earth, firm but not hard, visible, unseen. Red clay and black loam, rich with promise, rinsed with summer rain, drumming above you in sudden showers. Filled with life, baked and frozen, presser against sky and sneakers. Pushing and shoving, forcing you aside, drinking the rain you save, tasting your minerals.
Time is nothing.
And down in a swirl, past the faded black rubber fringe of the insinkerator, into this dark and smelly pipe. And Summer rain is nevermore, for there is no return from where you're going. Alas, poor carrot dirt. She wept, and I could do nothing. I had done all she said.