Digging in the Dirt

I am the dirt.

I am the leaves.

I am the tiny mushrooms

growing on branches and trees.

You explore me

and are satisfied.

I am the dump,

the treasures buried.

I am broken glass.

I am rusted metal.

You see beauty in the remnants

and value in an old patina.

A shard of glass,

it will cut deep

when grasped too tightly.

You have been careful.

Your hands never bleed.

Yet, I never question

I am being held

by something.

(It is Love)

I, (the broken shard)

when held carefully in the sun,

- am exposed

natural beauty,

iridescent sparkle,

hope

of some future fantasy garden

filled with baubles

that shine,

glisten,

and sound,

found art sculptures,

carefully crafted

from the remains

of the fruitful lives

the farmers led,

who lived here

and thrived,

years before

we went

digging in the dirt.