WITH THE TURN OF THE SPADE ©

We thought we could do anything
after turning that acre of ground
spading row after row after row.
The spade cut so cleanly into the crust
as we locked our bare toes over the steel lip
rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

The wonderful, painful ache of the shoulders
with 100 turns of the shovel.
We swore each turn of earth was 12 inches deep.
We were hunched with resolve to turn under
the whole of the field
to prove ourselves warriors under the sun.

It was the rocking of the weight on the spade
a cadence of caring I cannot forget.
It was thinking I could turn the acre of the world
with you grabbing the shovel to spell me
like we had enough time between dawn and dusk
to dig forever parallel in breaths.