He brought over the biggest
pitchfork I’ve ever seen.
So big it wasn’t
called a pitchfork. It
didn’t have a name. It
was big and red and he thrust it
into the earth and stood on it with all of his
weight, clutching the
worn metal shaft, the
red color flakes off the
steel and all of the nature
of strong metal
showing below
and he rocked this
large tool that wasn’t
a pitchfork with his legs
and swung his back like
a hairless monkey in
the trees and the
earth broke beneath him
like flesh spitting, coming up
in a cluster as he hung
his weight and force
tilting down down until
a moment before
his bones might hit
the ground. His arms
outstretched holding this
giant implement away from
being pulled into him if
ge should fall. He steps
off. Stands up.
Moving earth
My earth
A man digging
“Here, you try” he tells me
because I wanted the garden.

Photo by Craig Whitehead on Unsplash