The Small Evidence

I planted bulbs all afternoon,

my hands in the soil,

fingers pressing down

into the dark.

Now the dirt is under my nails,

dark crescents I can't remove,

packed in tight,

caught between the nail

and the skin beneath.

I pick at it. It hurts.

The nail catches my own skin

when I dig too hard.

This is what happens when you work

with your hands—

the world gets stuck inside you.

The soil under my fingernails

is the same soil

where the bulbs are sleeping.

I'm carrying them with me now,

in the dark lines,

in the smell that won't wash off.

This is evidence.

Proof that I was somewhere,

did something,

touched the earth

and let it touch me back.

Most things don't leave a mark.

But the dirt knows.

The dirt stays.