nothin’ smells better than
Indiana dirt,
bein’ turned with a pitchfork,
tines sharp enough to pierce
clean through
anything that is in it’s path;

taters exposed for the first time
to the summer sun,
warmin’ the rich soil and
dryin’ out the tan skins
of new taters that will soon
make the supper table;

we stoop over to sift through
black dirt to confiscate the prize
fruits of back breaking labor;
a family affair.

Michellia D. Wilson 8/13/2016