I love our dirt.
I love most everything about it.
The things you might expect – its smell and texture.
Its touch and the way it sifts through my fingers,
staining them as the soil itself, a reminder.
I’ve had to learn to love our dirt.
It’s not intuitive with me, like it is Leslie.
As a child, cleanliness was valued, dirt avoided.
Hands and nails checked for telltale signs,
washing more of a religion than an actual need.
It took moving here, to the mountains,
to rid the aversion from my life.
Gardening and working tobacco changed that.
Animals, and firewood, and just plain digging.
Now, dirt is everyday, and usual.
I love it under my nails.
How it turns the tips dark.
If you suck on those tips, you taste it.
Grit on your teeth, going down in a smooth swallow.
A cocktail of sorts.
Our dirt is clean.
No chemicals for twenty-five years.
Manure, compost, cover crops, leaves in the fall.
It’s rich. You dig in to a feast of life –
worms a plenty, worms galore.
We grow a small garden now,
we used to grow much more.
To eat food grown in soil you’ve nurtured is
one of life’s true gifts.
I think, “Fresh spinach in the early spring.”
I read about children today,
not knowing where their food comes from,
like me when I was young, but more so.
It’s sad to be without dirt, to lack intimacy with it,
to not know the primacy of its role.
And the bacteria and germs, the stuff that lives in dirt - now they’re saying all that stuff is good for you.
It builds resistance to disease.
Dirt makes us stronger, they say.
I hear my mother, “I don’t believe a word of it.”