Itch

Whoever is in charge of the public gardens
Has turned up the earth
For spring’s upheaval.
Entrenched clods, now exposed to breezy brightness,
Crust in the fresh air, becoming hard through.

Those small spindle legged creatures
With articulated shells
That had thrived in the moist dark
Scurry on the surface, smaller than the eye can tell.

They scrimmage, struck by the gentlest gust.
We had gone nowhere, half slept all morning.
Getting hotter,
Fought:
Overdue but unsure of the aim.
You had things to do. I left,
A wanting step, walked by the brown scape.
A dirt plot by the still lush slopes,
And stared at its honesty
At odds with its planned and pretty intent.
It would be just so, come summer.

Birds tweak out soil mites,
Their all-dark eyes like the curved backs of the creatures.

Healthy parasites, on our lashes, between the sheets
And in that dirt. Come summer,
Less filth, soil concealed.
Churned,
Compliant,
Ongoing.

On hard ground you thought of me
As made only of words
And nitpicked, time permitting;
Scratched the more than surface itch.

 

© Kate Charles 2009