At the table pondering soil

I wonder What you think of me
In a place where I’ve hid my eyes
your words paint those high
cloudy skies

Morning time
Fill my cup of
Whatever it is that you’ve had
I draw circles with my index in the crumbs

I wonder what you think of me

I slide the shovel through the soil
You ask me what I’m doing
Your voice cuts through the hum of the fridge where our pictures hang

I slide the shovel through the soil
and deep down the shock of a sturdy rock