Dwight's Potatoes on Shenandoah Street 001


There’s something about dirt that draws me

The smell of freshly turned earth

Not just one but many tickling my olfactory

Clay and loam hillside and bottom land

All have a unique smell

Better than the smell is my memory

Of running through the freshly disked field

Feeling the fresh dirt under my feet

Squeezing between my toes

Pushing the cultivator to make straight rows

Following my father as he plants tomatoes

With a bucket of water and a soup can

One can for each new plant

Then there’s the smell of the dirt as we dig potatoes

An unexplainable earthy smell just for that moment

Amazing dirt jumpstarts beans and peas

Pushing their roots deep as the green shoots emerge

Corn shoots the size of a split pen point  grow tall

Standing eight feet high with green ears of gold

Some like to substitute sterile potting soil for dirt

Spongy peat wood fiber that holds no water

I much prefer real dirt with clay and rocks and sand


Photo: Ruth A. Roth

6 thoughts on “Dirt

  1. Your poem reminded me of my days growing up in Guyana. My father had a kitchen garden and we kids were expected to help with the weeding and watering. Nowadays, the highlight of my week is the hour I spend in my flower garden on Saturdays.

    Liked by 1 person

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