Dirt. Just Dirt. Poem by Diane Lee Moomey

Above the spare tire but below
the blower and its orange cord,
among the pruning shears, dog treats
and bags of bone meal; beside the hula hoe
and the bottle holding emulsion of fishes,
its cap askew, dockside scent wafting over all,
in there somewhere is a set of knee
pads: blue nylon, foam-filled,
velcroed fore and aft.
Queenly knee pads.

I could go get them.

Already these knees in less-than-denim,
in gray and blue striped once-pajama
bottoms nearly bare of thread,
already these knees have sunk
deep into loam, are cradled in cool
beneath this loropetalum,
among the spotted spurge.

weed:green growing where I did not intend,
and faster than it has a right to.

I could, this April afternoon —
its too warm, too almost-summer-three-
pm - lazy-stillness broken
only by the wahwahwah
of the mow-and-blow downstreet —
I could and probably should climb
that pergola and snip brown heads
from Lady Banks' rose but oh! the shade
beneath the loropetalum!
And the spurge, the dandelion and wild strawberry
crowding rudely the helleborus! quite
rudely and so I remain, slide wet knees
further between the branches.

No one can see me.

I pluck, toss each weedling onto the walk.
A red worm, freed from the walls of her self-made
tunnel, thrashes in air. I scoop a hollow
into last year's leaf mold, drop her in.

A privet has trespassed — tall. I pull.
Its root mass, tough and too large
for its top, lets go
in a spray of soil and scent.

Dirt. Just dirt.
I press that root ball to my nostrils.

The old smell:
suddenly I am two, set down in the garden,
briefly unwatched, a private silent moment engaging
the scents of my world, aromas
yet unnamed as I cannot now name
layers in a bouquet of chocolate, or speak
of how this bar differs from those,
except that it does, and all
are chocolate.

Loam. Soil. Earth. Marl. Glebe. Alluvium.
All dirt.

Once rock. Before that, molten
rivers far below what was not yet our feet;
before that, free atoms
in the hearts of stars.
It was.

Whump! A car door.
My client has returned. She'll see
boot soles protruding from the shrubbery,
green piles on the walk and know
I am doing something horticultural
most competently.

She will not see
the dirt on my nose.