“Dada! Find wiggly-woo!” the twins cry,
exultant at the chance to dig fingers in earth
and find its inhabitants in their hands.
And so, on my lunch break, I fossick
in our newly dug garden bed,
each patch of earth yielding
a companion for these delighted fingers,
and I store the moment like compost
to ferment within, to wriggle me alive.
The Consolations of Writing 