This Strange Time

My hands dig the soil
In this place. What strange treasures
Touch me through the earth, now

Newly turned? I thought the ground
Firm once. I thought it a plateau of certainties
With no give, no decay, no growth.

Yet now the soil crumbles
Through my fingers. Sandy loam shatters
Into a million particles

Even before I feel the bound grit
Sharp against my skin.
And as I turn this soil over

I dream of you. Your rich
Mossy bed. Your moist ground
Filled with hidden promises,

And you, welcoming as the earth itself,
Open, opening towards me
As I turn this dusky loam between my fingers?