Topsoil crumbles in my hands.
I am digging, parting the ground like Moses
only I see no Father on my side.

Springbirds sing, but the ground is numbing.
My fingernails flake, bare and brittle,
and dirt cakes like blackened French tips.

Roots and fungus mingle with minerals.
I think of earth's obliging layers
and of the dent for flowers now hollowed by my hands.

The soil is soft, tilled by creeping things.
I think of my feet and lips and mind of clay
and wonder why worms can't soften me, too.
1

You might also like…

Poetry

Here's Ears

Ann Garrett

Elephants use their ears as fans;they're so much bigger than a man's.They scatter pesky flies with ease,and really stir up quite a breeze.This dog is called a Basset Hound.His tummy almost skims the ...  [+]

Poetry
Poetry

The Big BOO!

Sibylla Nash

There's something in my closet. Its raspy monster breath makes my curtains flutter at night. I tell my mom, but she says it's just the sound of the wind whispering secrets to the moon.

There's ...  [+]