Dearest Dirt


Dear dirt,

It’s been a while since we sat together.
Once upon a time
I would have stuffed a few handfuls
straight into my mouth,
that crunch and grit
and instant petrichor
washed down with a swallow of pond water.
(Those were the days, right?)

Not sure what happened in between
those weeks of blackened feet
and lighter soul,
but I remember how the softness
of brown warmth
beneath my outstretched legs

could make the biting flies pipe down
to a humble, steady buzzing

could ease away the ache
of a good long run
through leaning woods.

And now
I’ve grown away from dust
and worms
and dandelion leaves

I’ve grown so tall my head
is swimming somewhere
in the clean, clear air,
and I don’t know…

I just don’t know if I like it
It’s so rich and grey in oxygen.
And there’s a heady hint of smoke
and car exhaust
and also rain, sometimes.

It’s nice.
But I would like
just for today
to sink my toes beneath
your blanket
and to share the warmth
you gave me
when my feet were small
and calloused.
Just for today.
You understand?



© Rebecca Kerr, 2014

Public Domain Photo