I remember my father digging,
foot on the spade’s top edge
pushing the blade further in,
Grandma twisting her trowel
into the roots of weeds,
breaking their tentacle holds,
and tiny me screaming, running
from a thick gelatinous earthworm –
never to be a gardener!
Written for Quadrille #246 at dVerse: a poem of exactly 44 words excluding title, which must contain some form of the word 'dig'.
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