The Weight of the Dirt

The shovel hit a root, then gave way soft.

My friend, she showed me where the roses went.

I dug, and then, without a second thought,

scooped up a handful, dark, and damp, and spent.

The scent of turning earth, a bitter sweet

that clung inside my nose, a primal hold.

The tiny grit, a texture so complete,

it seeped into the story to be told.

It stained my palm, a temporary smear,

like living memory, a subtle hue.

This heavy, crumbling earth, it made things clear.

The small anxieties, the frantic new,

they settled down. Just this, beneath my thumb.

The honest ground. The quiet, ancient hum.