Manual Labor

My sister wants a garden in the middle of a drought.

She handed me the tool and pointed the spot out.

I drove the blade down but it hit a flat rock,

sending a shudder through my arm like a shock.

The handle is splintered, the wood is all dry.

The hole is a shallow, pathetic black eye.

The dirt is like concrete, refusing to move,

and I’m just a person with nothing to prove.