At first my skin resists
the stain of the soil.
As though it is a mistake,
an accident,
something to wipe off.
I hold my breath
as my hands are transformed
from petals
to roots.
Soon they roam the dirt
like rodents prowling for grubs.
They are a little bit wild,
released from months
of fastidiousness,
sifting the earth with such raptness
it is as though my fingers
can taste and smell.
I used to garden with gloves on
but now I see this is like kissing
your lover from inside
a plastic bag.
I look clean
but look again:
I am of this earth,
begging to be
reunited.