A fistful of dirt slips through my hand

A fistful of dirt slips through my hand,

the scent sharp and raw, a rough demand.

I kneel in the garden, the rain falls in sheets,

where seeds lie in silence, all hidden retreats.

Each clump of soil, a weight in my chest,

reminds me of burdens that never find rest.

I bury my worries, I plant them with care,

hoping they'll grow, despite the despair.

Yet roots intertwine with the sorrow I've sown,

and the earth swallows whispers of things left alone.

What rises in spring may just be a guise—

will beauty emerge from what underlies?