The loam much like foam on the tide of the Earth
Gives rise to all life and to all that it's worth.
It surges in hillocks of brown, red and gray,
As flowers and fruits take their roots in its clay.

I squeeze it, it flows through my fingers so thick,
This is the clay that I mold to a brick.

The sun in the sky calls the wheated field forth,
As warm golden light overlooks the green swarth.
The grasses all rush in the warm passing breeze
With ripples that seem like the tide in the seas.

I reap it and stalks from the sheaf I do pick,
This is the straw in the clay of my brick.

The sand of the land is the grind of the ground,
The clam is a fish that makes never a sound.
I burn up their shells and I mix in the ash
And water I add in a boiling splash.

The lime freezes time with a chemical trick,
This is the mortar that cradles my brick.

As plants grow their stalks and the clams form their shells,
A man makes a plan for a house where he dwells.
Away from the play of the sea, wind and sky,
I type at a screen where I'm snug, warm and dry.

The clocks make their tock with occasional tick
Here in the house that I made from my brick.