The melt of the snow is
a smothering of colors as green murmurs,
A smell of gunk left by animals and decay.
Textures like a mess of renewal.
An expanding mess of browns
as dead leaves from last year
peak through.
My hands are in the muck,
shovels of flesh as my
finger nails capture
the dirt.
My fingers penetrate
the petty feeling of wanting
to be wanted.
I want to grow something
worth seeing,
and without words you
know happiness is there.
I tell them not to worry,
forget even the space I take.
I dig and dig.
I know I can grow something
worth loving.
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 6:01 PM UTC
The melt of the snow is
a smothering of colors as green murmurs,
A smell of gunk left by animals and decay.
Textures like a mess of renewal.
An expanding mess of browns
as dead leaves from last year
peak through.
My hands are in the muck,
shovels of flesh as my
finger nails capture
the dirt.
My fingers penetrate
the petty feeling of wanting
to be wanted.
I want to grow something
worth seeing,
and without words you
know happiness is there.
I tell them not to worry,
forget even the space I take.
I dig and dig.
I know I can grow something
worth loving.