Renaissance

The winter that she had pneumonia, she dreamed of dirt. Encased in sterile cotton sheets, lungs gurgling like creek water over broken chert, she dreamed of the smell of soil, dark, damp, heavy in the palm: she wanted to lie down in it, feel it cling behind her knees, rise up in dusty coils around her fanned hair, every warm handful a promise of grass, violets, oaks, whatever takes root.