The Work

I spent the morning helping my neighbor

clear her garden before winter.

Just looked at my hands—a laborer's—

and saw what they could shelter.

The dirt is packed so deep

under each fingernail,

embedded so completely it's steep,

earth that won't fail

to remind me I was there,

that I did something that mattered,

that my hands had care

enough to help, not shattered.

I could scrub it away,

use a brush and soap today.

But I don't. Instead I stay

with the proof, with the display

of evidence that I'm someone

who gets dirty, who helps,

who does the work that's come

from the earth, from the kelps

of time and labor.

The dirt under my nails

is a covenant with my neighbor,

proof that my care prevails.

Tomorrow it'll fade.

The shower will take it all.

But today I'm made

of something that won't fall.