not slippery not treated
dirt as fell from the mountains
dirt from tree roots and mammal shit.
after a while turning
into a half-finished mess of art
I won’t know what it is until it’s done.
not the dirt of oily
changeability the residue of
dishonesty mixed with opportunity.
washed and carried by
deep springs and flash floods
dirt from the democracy of all plants.
loved by holy hands
and hard-walking feet going
where men and women are headed.
On my shirt
on my neck and pants
clean dirt rewarding you and me
for getting out of bed and going to work.