Dirt In My Hand

A clod of dirt held in my hand,
Caress its earthy mold.
But gently, for it can’t withstand
Much pressure as I hold.

I stroke its roughened texture,
I gently kiss this sand,
And whisper words of thoughtfulness
To dried mud in my hand.

And other people watch me
And quickly shake their heads.
But never will they understand,
Their hearts and minds hardened instead.

Though in a single instant,
With a single breath,
My unkind words strike this lump of dirt –
It crumbles to its death.

Back to earth and back to dust
Where all life hastens as it must.
To cold of nothing, which once was warm
This now demolished human form.

Copyright ©2001 Robert Adkisson