This poem last written last year when I was thinking about the word ‘barren’ and the various connotations it can have.
It started with the first line, as I had just harvested some Christmas potatoes, and I been digging the soil in search of their starchy treasure. The rest of the poem flowed from there.
Lost causes My hands are digging into the dirt Soil embedding deeper under my fingernails I cannot stop. My eyes are searching Rocks and the roots of weeds mock my efforts I cannot stop. My hope is dwindling There is no meal to be found here today I cannot stop. And just like that, your face turns away from my kiss And I know the fertile land of love is lost to me now I don’t know how to stop.