Dirt

Beneath my son’s fingernails

there is a trace of earth.

Not quite enough to sprout a seed,

but related.

I brush off my knees

returning the mud and chlorophyll

and shredded leaves

back to the earth that was pressed

into my dry skin by my weight

and the inelegant urge to be outdoors.

We carry our dirt with us

under our nails,

and on our knees;

in the canyons of time and age.

It smells of potential and death,

and is not the same as rebirth,

but related.

Copyright 2019 – Laurie Marshall

This poem is being posted as part of the #100dayproject. Find out more here.