Metal Edge

It leans against the shed wall,

black handle worn smooth.

That steel blade, still sharp,

catches the afternoon light.

The garden's a mess, needs turning,

but the thought of the soil,

packed hard, wet, and cold,

makes my shoulders tighten.

It's more than just dirt, this job.

It's pushing down, breaking through.

Sometimes feels like burying things,

sometimes like digging them up

when you thought they were gone.

Either way, it’s heavy.

And that metal edge wants to bite.