Scrubbing soil from potatoes and squash
leaves mud in the sink.
The sweet earth scent
moves my memory
to turning and tilling,
the cool roots in dark mould,
the deep, stout color, near black.
I scoop away the mess
and rinse out the sink.
With clean hands
I take up the knife,
halve the squash, into the baking dish.
The praties patted dry and rubbed with oil,
will roast on the rack in their rough skins.
Butter, cheese, sour cream, brown sugar
call out across the earth in my mouth.
The soil is under me, in me, is me.
I am clumps and clods on a bone armature.
I breath in and blow out a dust cloud.
Nightcrawlers, clover honey, and root of oak
come together, knitted up in the skin of me.