Digging deeper,
the humusy soil yielding
to my strokes and claws,
the prong harder than steel
yet made of wood
slicing, cutting the roots that bind
the tangled past unearthed
revealing bulbs, purple stems,
the green frond that salutes
the wind whipping the meadow,
cherishing the ramp as I dig.
and yet here i go again
sitting beside the exposed trunk
massive tree engulfed by a lake
watered with a garden hose,
producing mud by the pailful
as the plastic boats
spin out of control.
My hands dig deeper
into the soil of my youth.
what beckons me that I should
bruise the knees of my Wranglers
and drag a sack against the ground?
I am as the baby who delights in wonder
the toddler taking precious steps
the newlywed gathering roses
as I gather the bouquet
of the green, the purple, and the white.
I have been here before
in my secret dreams.
I am playing in the dirt
and I am free.
c 2012, Daithi Fleming
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