Oh the clods of dirt

that time turns over.

Chunks of potentially

workable soil.

In winters of depression

impenetrably frozen.

Too often I step over them

for their comeliness,

the effort to break them apart.

Headed to a somewhere,

even a someone else’s somewhere,

for my garden to establish.

As though fine soil

and composted experience await me

already integrated.

Joel Jacobs, 2009, All Rights Reserved