Dirt doesn't lie to the hands. Clay, sand, root riddled; too skimpy for seed; sun bleached or shaded, weed woven. Your work, your work. The moon murmurs in your ear at night that the time is ripe. The wrong-headed sunlight hangs its halo on your pitchfork. Plant as you always have. Belly breath every fertile thing. Dig up a worm. Watch it wriggle in the lined joy of your palm. Gentle, give it back to the honest earth. Bear witness till it's gone.
Kelli Simpson is a poet and former teacher based in Norman, Oklahoma. Her work has appeared in Lamplit Underground, Green Ink Poetry, One Art Poetry Journal, The MockingHeart Review, and elsewhere.
Photography by Anne Leigh Parrish
