In the garden, a shallow divot draws crumbling earth like a secret. Rain pools there, mixing with loam into something dark and rich. Worms find the hole first, then roots, then the patient hands of a gardener pressing seeds into the warmth. The dirt doesn’t just fill the hole — it nestles .

It sounds like you’re asking for a piece based on the phrase

Some say dirt is just misplaced — soil under fingernails, mud on a white rug, dust on a forgotten shelf. But dirt has preferences. Dirt, if you watch closely, loves holes .

So when someone says, “Dirty loves holes,” don’t blush or smirk. Go outside. Find a crack in the sidewalk. Kneel down. Watch the dust drift into it, grain by grain. That’s not entropy. That’s affection.