Dirt

There's dirt and then there's dirt,
she'd say when I'd complain about the jammed-in crusts
that threatened to wedge off my young fingernails.
Some dirt's just good for the soul
that's all.

And she'd show me how to tease apart the root balls
in those bedding flats that ruled the house for weeks
until the weather turned.
No two-buck packs with dainty partitions there --
in those days you saved your seed
recycled
built up your stock
shared it out
and grew again.

Now they'd call it Heritage
I suppose
and charge you more to prove it.
Then it was just what was done
and no one thought it at all
unusual.

Funny how a history
can be boiled down so
succinctly
All we were
and all we are
is seeds
sun
rain

and dirt

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My grandmother used to tell me that her mother would never go to museums because she didn't need to see "her" stuff under glass...