Friday, April 3, 2015

National Poetry Month 3: Dirt

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.

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