Chinking
by Pamela Den Ouden
The softness of the earth
Takes our weight
Bears us up with a slight groan
Chin at their knees
The children bend close to the ground
Plucking moss from its nest
At the base of the pines
Small roots cling to moist black earth
Until the whisper of tearing
Signals it is ours
At the cabin, small fingers chink out daylight
Even after we wash
The smell of green clings to our hands
North wind will pound like a
mallet
Driving ice-sharp
Kept out by the soon-brown moss
