I worked with the soil

I worked with the soil,

a losing battle fought,

tried to make a dead thing whole,

but it just came to naught.

My nails are black moons now,

each a tiny cave,

where the grit still knows how

to misbehave.

I scrubbed them with a brush,

saw the water run down grey,

but the dirt, with a flush

of defiance, chose to stay.

It’s under the skin, almost,

a map of where I’ve been,

a tiny, stubborn ghost

that I can’t quite scrub clean.