Swallow the dew (poetry)

small farm, farming, tomatoes, play, love, redemption, poetry

Each dawn,
I breath in,
enough.
Out,
enough.

The soil loosens in my hands.

Farming has shaped us both,
this land, and I.
It has shaped us into one word, on repeat.

Enough.
Enough.
Enough.

I load the tomatoes into the crates.
I haul in grace,
pound, upon pound, upon pound.

This deal we’ve made,
it is no small deal.
I can not wash the dirt from under my nail no matter how hard I try.

No.
It is no small deal.

Tender, tended. Provider, provided. I am not sure where I begin, where the Earth ends?

My skin is stained yellow.
I smell like tomato.
I feel that someday I will be
no more than
dirt.

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