Posted in poetry


my fingertips bruise;
they stain,
while digging
against soft dirt
that keeps falling
more into place.

the rut
in which I did reside
that offered no shelter
nor escape,
offered at least
the view of the garden
I never noticed.

I am
buried beneath
something glorious.
I cannot reach
to grab hold
of roots, the anchor,
keeper of pretty things
that are not to be thrown away.

the earth I am home to
for such a short spell,
has come to own me
for as long
as eternity will allow.

I am settling,
and the farmer
cares not.

Originally published in Issue 40 of The Legendary

A reading can be heard here.


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