The rumble of the truck rattles
bugs buried deep, nesting
in the earth. Its rusted plow
cracks cement and lifts, casts
it to the side making
all things new. Mamaw’s gangway
was where I had hovered, knees bent,
poised as I grabbed my shovel
and dug through the earth, wanting
to reach the other side,
not knowing I wouldn’t come
back. The grass turned over
as Mamaw churned the earth, laughed
as the dirt fell through the tips
of her fingers, searching
for the plump grubs and worms
she’d seen before, for hope
to rise again, breath in our chests.
Pensworth 