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Wrongs

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  • Wrongs

    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.
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