I walked the line
along the tracks.
Two iron straights
connected by wooden slats.
The end would bring the answer
if I kept on the straight and narrow.

No turning back.
No veering off.
Just straight and narrow.

In the end, though, it was my hands,
not my feet,
that found the jewel.

At the end the answer
dug deep into the soil,
scratch and scraped,
fingernails chipped,
bones crooked from age.

Dug deep into the soil
to hold dear,
no matter the weight
or pain.

No judgements.
Just digging.
Then holding.
Not walking.
Holding.
Deep and near.

Straight into the
iron of my heart.