Jack Garcia
The rich
soil between my fingers.
The smell of
the earth. The way
it supports
me, pushes me up
like a
dandelion. One minute,
all yellow-petaled
and cheery.
Rooted and
strong.
Then
suddenly all fluffy-headed,
scattered about
by whatever
wind the
world wishes to dismiss
me with. A small child with dirt
under her
fingernails grabs me
by the neck
and exhales,
using me to
get her wish.
It’s either
she or me, I see.
This soil
isn’t rich enough
for the both
of us.
No comments:
Post a Comment