Dirt Poem
The soil is deep and dark and fragrant,
lifting a rainwashed cellar smell
into the air. It clings to fingers,
staining skin like a pencil rubbed on paper,
revealing fingerprints.
It melts under the flow of water,
softens, becomes fluid, shapeless,
seeps into cracks between stones,
between toes. It absorbs seeds,
enfolds roots, cradles pebbles,
closes without a trace
behind fleeing earthworms.
Things cast down
become part of it, the apple cores,
the bread crumbs, the jewel-colored leaves,
disintegrating slowly;
the white river pebbles,
the shining silver pop-tops, burnished pennies,
all take on the mellow cast of brown.