The shovel left behind

A rusty shovel leans against the fence,

splintered handle like an old man's wrist.

Its metal blade sunk deep into cracked earth,

as if trying to hold on, or maybe resist.

Dried leaves gather at its base—dead witnesses.

Forgotten under summer's blaze and winter's grip.

No one called it back, no hands claimed it back,

just left it here, caught in time's tight slip.

It’s not just a tool, it’s a silence you keep—

buried in dirt, beneath wilted weeds.

Like all the things we drop without a sound,

things forgotten while the whole world speeds.