Joy

the soil lingers beneath
her fingernails, nestled
between the flesh of
fingertip and unkempt keratin

gloves never suited
her earthworm like
fingers that reveled in
feeling the moist soil
against their skin

when she reaches
within the holes her
ravenous hands excavate
she becomes the force
behind earth and birth

she has watched her
fellow flower enthusiasts
hover as viceroys and
painted ladies over
the pots of nursery stock

they sip from pools
of gossip, a drink she
has always found bitter
as it has been mostly
thrown in her face

their words are as
that of the hummingbird's
flapping wings and they
drink and pick and prod petals

allure has mostly distracted
her from tame potted plants
and she instead looks for
specimens of the ditch

the fiery head of dock
waving slender clover arms
protruding and silver
thorns of purple thistles
these of the wild excite her

they are her feral lovers
that beckon to her
in the sun scorched heat
and sticky skin afternoons

and she dare not bring
them home with her but
rather savor them where
their roots run deep into
the moist soil that lingers
beneath her fingernails