A Life with a Hole in it.

My dad gave me a shovel the Christmas I was six, and I cleared all the little sticks out of the back garden,

and began.

I taped a map of Asia to the ceiling of my bedroom,

and planned the cities I would visit, and made sure my skateboard fit in my backpack because the Great Wall

of China would make a great ramp,

and I WANTED TO FLY-

why

are dreams so deep that keeping heart and feet both moving

feels like such a fool’s illusion?

I have dug so many years and shed so many tears

when the sunset let my fears outwith the dark,

and still I’ve found my heart

among the roots of trees and buried seeds,

and know what?

My dog loves to dig, too.

I think holes are beautiful, don’t you?