Unbroken

Half-buried in the dirt,

a child's shovel.

Red, once. Now a dull pink, chalky with sun.

Its edges worn smooth, not broken.

It had seen sand,

maybe a small attempt at a moat.

Left out in seasons,

the indifferent freeze and thaw.

A small monument to permanence.

The earth around it, soft, giving.

The plastic, unyielding.

Its color gone, but not its shape.

It will be here,

a hundred years from now,

a strange artifact of something

that wouldn't just give up and die.