Connemara: Lessons in Dirt

Lessons in Dirt

The shovel, strong
under my weight, cuts
sharply through the grass.
Its smooth handle promises
leverage I need to snap roots
and dislodge stones. I peal
back the sod and set it aside,
expose worms and loam to sky.
Let the digging begin.
Sculpture of a ditch. The rhythm
of torso, hands and feet drive
the words I mouth to dance
with breath and sweat. Blood,
like bars and picks, knows
the temperament of soil, teaches
secrets hidden in muscle
and bone - what's under
the tongue. I carve, shape the trench
behind, burrow ahead with
badger arms that know this work
leads home. Down here
in sweet-musty air, the mind
follows the body. When I stop,
recline in the cushioned earth,
cool clay drugs my skin.
This soil is rich, brown-black
as the woman who walks
through my dreams. When I
close my eyes, she beckons me
to join her on the alder shaded ground -
submerged in the aroma of leaves.

-Mark Gibbons