Digging in the garden,
hands deep in the dirt,
I have no beliefs.
I have soil for a pulse
and soil for lungs, soil
for hands and heart.
I don’t have thoughts
about who should do what
or how, instead
I have dirt thoughts—
loamy, rich, crumbling thoughts
that sometimes, if I’m lucky,
have a potato in them.
I speak the language
of mineral and listen
for organic matter,
but the only word
they seem to say
is listen, listen.
And then, they say
nothing at all.
I get in the same zone cooking. Thanks for the words.
Oh yeah … that’s a great place to get lost (found) in, too!!