Dirt

I come not to bury seeds, but to praise dirt. --Lucius Agricola

You know, dirt, the thing that makes your dinner. 

Dirt, soil, stuff under your grass, under your fingernails.

You chew your nails? More dirt for you.

You don't do dirt work? You gotta get out of the house, my friend.

The smear on your forehead when you wipe away sweat with a gloved hand. 

You don't sweat? Seriously, get a life. 

Jam the tip of your finger into a mound of dirt and set 3 cucumber seeds, Braggers, Straight 8s, or Suyo Longs--I don't care.

Drag your finger--sure, same one--drag that finger through the dirt and gently sprinkle tomato seeds. Lightly cover. Super Sweet 100s, Baby Boomer Hybrids, or Omars Lebanese.

Scatter French marigold seeds across a raised bed, and add--dirt.

You want to call it garden soil, fine. But it's dirt.

Now, grab a shovel because we are going digging. Okay, you are. In the dirt. Make a nice hole for those Knockouts or Roses of Sharon or Forsythia, or be bold, plant a tree in your yard. In the dirt. 

Yes, a tree. River birch, crape myrtle, ornamental plum. A Drake elm. Just think, someday a 30-ft tree growing in your dirt. 

You don't have dirt? Get. A. Life.

Or at least get some containers, and then get some dirt. 

Better than dirt? Lavender growing in your dirt.

Or Coreopsis. Or pansies for crying out loud. 

Dirt on your forearms. Dirt on your knees. A fingerprint of dirt on the brim of your hat, cap, or bonnet. 

Dirt on the rim of your water glass. Now that is living. 

Ashes to ashes, after all. Dirt to dirt.

Now get out there, and dig, dig, dig!