The humble dirt is holding me.
Holding me as it holds the bare, broken feet of peasant farmers who walk this way each and every day.
Holding me as it holds the bare, broken feet of women who are wells for their families as they retrieve water from the river and carry it, heavy, in plastic tubs on their heads.
Holding me as it holds the bare, broken feet of children who are trees for their families as they gather sticks from the bush and carry them, careful, in bundles on their heads.
Holding me as it holds the bare, broken feet of men who are food for their families as they pick beans from the plants and carry them, hopeful, in bunches upon their backs.
Holding my bare, broken feet.
Holding me heavy, careful, hopeful.
Holding me.
The humble dirt is holding me.
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