Rootbound Hand

My hands, they weren't made for this.

Not really.

But the old woman, she stood there,

skin like crumpled paper,

watching me dig.

The weed, it was a beast.

Taproot deep, holding on

like a grudge.

I pulled, felt the give,

then the sudden tear

as it ripped free.

And there it was,

a fistful of damp earth,

dark and rich and cool.

Bits of white root,

like severed nerves,

and a fat, pink worm

twisting, confused,

falling back to the soil.

A strange weight.

Not just the dirt itself,

but the smell of it.

Deep and wet and old.

It clung to my palms,

under my fingernails,

a fundamental grit.

And for a moment,

just a beat,

I didn't want to let it go.

Felt like I held

something raw and truthful,

before tossing it

back to the pile.