Dirt of one kind and another.

On a whim, and because I couldn’t stand the sticking anymore, I decided to clean out my computer keyboard. I pried off all the key caps, making sure to keep them in order and this is what I found underneath.

It was pretty bad. There were hair and dust and food and even a fingernail clipping. I used Q-tips dipped in Windex to clean out the shmutz and wiped each key off with a damp cloth before snapping them back into place. I didn’t get all the dirt, but it’s a lot better than it was. Suddenly my typing feels so much smoother, the space bar isn’t sticking and the caps key is responsive.

I yawned my way through writing group tonight, but I have something that I think I can work up into a respectable poem. I will leave you with a poem I contrived from one of last week’s exercises:

Dirt

Dark, crumbly loam pours from the composter
over clumps of dirt packed together
by winter’s chill and the weight of snow
and ash swept out of the wood stove:
rich, life-giving soil from
vegetable parings and apple cores,
eggshells and grapefruit rinds,
coffee grounds and tea bags;
all that is thrown away --
scrapings from dinner plates,
ends of beans and celery leaves,
corn cobs and avocado shells --
finds its way into the black plastic box
to rot,
metamorphosing in that polyvinyl coccoon
as it becomes the black earth
that cradles the new year’s crop.
Parsley stems and tomato cores
return to the soil that grew them;
tough stalks of basil will nourish
next summer’s pesto,
and all this flows over my spade
and I spread it and cover it
and crumble the clods of clay-packed dirt
which, after years of mingling
with spring’s spoils from winter’s waste,
is still hard and rebellious
under my shovel and rake.
A clang of metal on rock,
on limestone and shale brought up by winter heaving;
these will not decompose. They will not become soil
in my lifetime.

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