Unearthed Dreams

Last week, I handed over my shovel,

a rusty handle heavy with memories,

its blade caked with dirt,

a silent witness to long nights,

digging into the backyard soil

where dreams sprouted,

but too often faded,

like that summer sun.

Each scrape of metal on stone

was a promise whispered,

yet here I am,

with calloused hands

shoving aside the past,

hoping to unearth

what was lost beneath the weeds,

a life waiting to bloom

under the weight of forgotten plans.