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My fingernails were never meant to be

so trim as this. For what purpose are they

if not as spades for potted plantery—

her soils and her seeds on sowing day?

They were always to be filled underneath

with earth, as dark and velvet as can be,

and only cleaned when heaven can bequeath

her tears to irrigate both roots and me.

What use have these ten shovels on my hands?

Elsewhere they might be vile weaponry.

But here they may grow fruits from many lands,

as often as a seed can, planted, be.

These fingernails were not meant to be clean,

but dressed in earth, with both thumbs painted green.