Why I Dream About Dirt and Seed

It isn’t the fruits the tomatoes or zucchini
the buoyant I need salad dressing tipped romaine
the kale to roast I dream about
as much as the hot sun on my cold hair
the dirt under my moon curved fingernail
the crunch of soil under my sneakers
It is the wind and the breeze on days the air is mustered
It is the water stream irrigating pebbled dirt
the smell of lavender the odor of green of pepper
the red strawberries and blue blueberries
the sunflower’s height and the nasturtiums orange
It is the way the sweet potato vines grow over the earth
low growing skyscrapers with orange rooms inside

It is the crow flying by in the gray dawn
the monumental sun crossing the garden in an arc
I could not draw on paper unless it was paper as large
as the circumference of the unimaginable sky
It is the coolness of trees near the garden at dusk
the blue golden dark pink red and purple of sky
the water from the rain barrel
drenched shoes soggy mud stuck on soles
bugs and earth odors
bites that’s swell like tiny mounds of earth
dirt I smear on my forehead brushing my warm hair away
Creating horizontal line like the three lines
on a holy woman’s face as she kneels in prayer.