Dust and Memory

My fingers sink into dry soil,

clods crumble, roots crack,

tangled stories slip away.

Dust falls like tired rain,

coating nails, staining skin.

The earth feels heavier than it looks—

full of quiet weight,

old hands forgotten,

trees long since dead.

I hold this fistful tight,

but it slips,

a slow surrender

between fingers that want to keep

what’s already lost.