Beneath the Handle

I tripped over rust and clay,

a tool abandoned where it lay.

The blade still held the earth’s embrace,

dark soil clinging to its face.

A shovel isn’t just a tool,

it’s weight of work, the fool’s fuel.

Half-dug holes and buried dreams,

unfinished jobs that split the seams.

I lift it slow, its roughened wood,

feels heavier than it should.

Digging deeper than the dirt,

a place where scars refuse to hurt.