I fall to my knees,
Grab and grip the dirt in my hands.
The clods break into small pieces
With the slightest of pressure,
Slipping through my fingers
Like smooth sand.
It is the same dirt of my childhood.
The dirt I used to dig
To make smooth cup holes
In which to drop my marbles.  
The dirt I used to push and form
Into barriers and forts
To protect my plastic soldiers and me.
The same dirt my ancestors walked and worked.
The sweat, tears, and blood are all but dried, yet,
It still feels and smells just like yesterday’s.  
Nothing has changed except me.  
I feel as old as the dirt.