The Promise of Dirt

When I put my bare hands

Into the rich, black dirt,

Though I am almost an

Old man whose time

Is up, I can still feel the

Power and the promise

Of creation, of the refusal

To surrender to the inevitable

Because something will

Grow here, maybe

Tomatoes, or a beautiful

Head of Boston lettuce,

Or even a fruit tree, Honey

Crisp apples for a pie when

The days grow short and

The ground is hard and we

Struggle to remember

Spring and the rich black

Dirt and the promise it holds,

That something will grow here