I was working in the garden one Thursday in January 

pulling up weeds and laying fresh soil 

preparing the ground for the coming season 

I took off my gloves and tossed them to the side 

slightly out of disobedience for the  

barrier between the Earth and us 

fully in freedom 

to embrace my tired hands in the chilled sediment. 

 

As I slowly worked to turn the soil 

my hands grew thick with Earth 

my fingernails became frames for the silt and sand and clay 

I felt like a child at the edge of the world 

how busy I must have been all my life to 

forget what this felt like 

like I was part of something so beautiful and cyclical and 

so eternal and tender. 

 

When I unearthed my hands for the final time that day 

I could not help but wonder  

what it would be like  

if my skin were permeable to the soil 

if this humble particulate matter 

could meld so effortlessly into my busy fingertips 

for what more are we than ashes to ashes and dust to dust 

after all. 

 

It is now early spring and  

each time I go out to the garden 

I still wonder if there is soil  

embedded within me 

silently hoping that a marigold 

would sprout from my fingertip if given the chance 

I have now tucked my gloves away for the season 

just in the rare case this flower begins to bloom.