Grounded hands

My hands are black with hope 
from living in the earth.
Soil sunk into my rinkles
of skin and mind

Memories. I am young
we are making cake
hands full of flour, sweet sugar
A separate chocolate bowl for me

Not much has changed really.
Still resist it.
Too slow to do what I should
too fast to quit when I shouldn’t

Leave me here
holding on
like we used to.
I remember