Digger

It was a tower, I first imagined,
would be the end, the goal, one I had to climb
and when the peak was reached I’d find, at last,
paradise and my work would be done.

So, I picked the perfect pair of shorts,
stretchy and breathable, carried
a change of T shirts and started
climbing. One hand above the other.

Right then, before my eyes, the tower
shook violently, transformed
into a mountain and the peak
shot further up, showered in snow.

I slipped down.
I did not die.
Though I spent years
flailing, fetal.

Finally, I picked my broken legs
and set them straight with broken arms,
then went about gathering tools:
Hooks, harnesses, hammers, and claws.

Thermal pants and shirts. A parka jacket.
I got to climbing again.
The wind almost bit my fingers
I sucked when it got too cold.

I slept in caves, pissed icicles
and never saw a soul.
No, I never saw a soul.
It was the moon and I alone.

And at night, the moon whispered:
At the peak, the goal could be reached, right?
I shoved fingers in ears to sleep
but the closer I got, I imagined.

When the peak was finally in view
all I saw was the open sky.
I could see the snow drenched tip.
I could not see the goal. I could

not even see me. I looked
down at my calloused hands,
felt my piss and shit drenched legs,
walked to the nearest cliff and

jumped.

This time
I did not spend years
flailing, fetal.
No.

I shoved my hands into the dirt
and dug. I don’t need a shovel.
Nor heavy machinery.
My hands are enough.

I feel the soil beneath my nails.
I smell the petrichor.
The stones cut me, sometimes. That’s fine.
I think I hear water.

If I dig deep enough, there will
be water, flowing underground
for centuries, for millennia,
since the beginning of time.




Poetry by Sameen The PoetBay support member heart!
Written on 2026-10-06 at 06:21

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