Sewing Loose Soil

Life is a fibrous thread pulled through loose soil

wrapping itself around any pebble, any root, any worm,

anything that will help it find some sort of final form;

perhaps a knot, perhaps a coil, perhaps a bundled mess;

hopefully

a series of stitches crossing

into something useful, worth remembering—

A sock that fits. A quilt of a river. A body opening to a body.

The ground softens, the ground freezes, it grows grass, trees,

green peppers; some we cut, some we prune, some we eat.

Threaded dirt.

An embroidery of two people,

one wearing a Dr. Dog t-shirt,

sitting at a frozen lake listening to winter; ice so thick

they walk all the way to its center to pile snow into a seat

that is comfortable for seven minutes until the cold seeps

through to the soft skin on the backside of their thighs

and in those seven minutes the trees along the shore

list all the ways joy consumes them which they,

reading sparkling needles, realize is just a multitude of small

contentments. There is a dog on either side of them and two

cardinals on the branches with no leaves shuffling, rustling,

fastening off the thread

grateful for a life of sewing loose soil.