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
I really like your work.
Thank you so much brewthepoet