The Dog Dug Another Hole Today

This hole in the grass the size of a skillet,
the dirt dark and rich in the half-rain.

My insides grow muddy on the rain-long days.
The floor does, too.

The house thick with jackets
& too much of my breath.

I read up on strategies:
Find one place where your dog can dig.

Bury something she loves,
and encourage her to dig.

If she forgets, correct her.
Bring her back to her digging place.

I look for ways to repair:
Cut the grass with a flat trowel

Fill the hole with earth almost to the level.
Plant seed, plant sod. Wait for it to grow.

How much there is to do.
How much there is to do wrong.

I remember a story of the god Krishna: as a baby
he would not stop eating dirt from the garden.

His mother scolded him.
Then she peered into his mouth,

saw an entire universe within:
Galaxies, oceans, the past, the future.

All matter, all feeling, and her own self, too.
I look for a digging place.

The dog sets her chin on the kitchen floor.
I correct myself:

Pay attention to the dog,
or there will be so many more holes.

Pay attention to the dirt,
or there will be so many more universes

gone under my feet.

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Cameron Walker’s (she/her) writing has appeared in Terrain.org, Carve, and Five South.