The Toil

The act of digging for self and truth within myself, and fearing there is nothing of substance there.

I turn my soil every day

Waiting for the blond grains of dirt to turn black

Maybe if I dig a bit deeper…

I want to dig them out in wet black clumps

I’m looking for a few sprouts here

The delicate dance of an unfurling leaf there

Roots from a nearby tree snaking beneath the surface

Instead I find baked dry sand and stinging brown scorpions

I find nothing fertile between my cracks.

I couldn’t keep the desert out of me.