Unearthing

The frost has been busy.

The geraniums are black strings

rotting into the peat.

I dig in with bare fingers,

pulling up the shriveled history

of a summer I mostly missed.

The roots come out in a knot,

a small, brown fist

that refuses to let go of the grit.

The soil is jammed under my nails,

a dark crescent that won't wash out.