What's Left Undone

The handle is smooth from use,

worn by hands that knew their way.

The blade is dull, caked with dirt—

evidence of work I didn't stay

to finish.

I found it moving a box one day,

leaning against the wall like patience,

and there's a hole out back that stopped.

The ground around it still torn open,

still showing where I started

and then didn't keep going.

Something came up.

Or I got tired.

Or I decided it didn't matter anymore.

The shovel waits. It doesn't care.

It's just there,

waiting for someone to pick it up again,

waiting for the job to get done

or waiting to be forgotten.

Probably the second thing.