The Deep Pull

He said, "Pick the hard truth, not the easy lie,"

and something clicked, a sound from long ago.

My grandmother, beneath a summer sky,

her hands in dirt, where stubborn weeds would grow.

She showed me how to grip the dandelion,

not just the leaves, but down into the root.

"Else it comes back, dear, always, like a lion,"

she'd grunt, pulling, grim, bearing dusty fruit.

The soil would break, a clod of dark despair,

the long taproot, a pale and bitter thing.

She'd shake it off, then toss it in the air,

a victory, from such a simple swing.

It's messy work, to dig for what is true.

Her dirt-stained hands, I finally understand you.