Dirty Loves: Holes [updated]

In the garden, a shallow divot draws crumbling earth like a secret. Rain pools there, mixing with loam into something dark and rich. Worms find the hole first, then roots, then the patient hands of a gardener pressing seeds into the warmth. The dirt doesn’t just fill the hole — it nestles .

And in the body — a socket, a scar, a mouth — dirt finds its way. Underneath a scab, dried blood mixes with lint and skin cells. In a knothole of a fence, windblown soil builds a tiny dune. In the hollow of a skull, in the gaps between floorboards, in the rust-eaten pit of a car door: dirt waits, patient and dark. dirty loves holes

Because dirt knows what clean forgets — that emptiness is an invitation. A hole is not a lack. It’s a home. In the garden, a shallow divot draws crumbling