I
I plunged my shovel into bare ground
One foot stomping its edge,
Tearing dirt like paper
with needle-like precision
My garden was full;
I was careful to ration in the droughts
Watched the precipitation, tracking
Weather like a junior storm chaser, giddy
in my accuracy of the forecast.
The petrichor soothed me,
Dry earth absorbing June’s flash floods
Clay-chipped soil
Clobbered with the moisture of summer,
The smell of rain at night.
II
In the morning leaves
Glide in velvet across my palm,
Imprinting the coarse press on my fingertips,
Leaving watery residue in my hand
I remember holding the
Clusters of dirt, sinking my naked feet in mud
A little here and there; yes, that was it.
Andrew DeBella is a creative writing teacher in Oklahoma.
Photo by Neslihan Gunaydin on Unsplash
