I love to dig in the dirt,
Plunging my tool through
The concealing grass
And deep into the yielding earth.
Soil scent slips into my nose,
The cool, damp touch thrills my skin,
And little mysteries appear
With every shovel full—
Broken bricks and bits of glass,
Dog-buried bones, abandoned toys,
Seeds and roots and wiggling worms,
Everywhere life or signs of life
That was or is or is to be.
I love to dig in the dirt.
