Back to the yard,
so the shovel returns to my hand,
the fit of ash to palm again remade.

The shovel's blade
breaks the turf, the thatch
pried away, the chalky sound of rock

and grit clamor
against the garden calm. I did
this last year and last year and every

last year, this prod
into the roots, this work to divide
the plants, to stem the weed and sod, to turn

each bed back to itself,
to gather the dead
and remake this place we dug and made

once, when we decided
here we would live, here stand,
here make ourselves a life on this tough ground.

 

 

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