Dirt Work

The rain stopped, but the ground still sagged.

Cold steel bit in,

a chipped edge. My back lagged.

Wet dirt, clinging to the tin

blade. A grunt, a push.

The sound of rock, a scrape.

This simple, brutal hush

of digging, no escape

from the weight in my hands,

the grit on the wooden shaft.

Turning over old lands,

a necessary craft.

And I keep at it, slow and deep,

until the trench is laid.

What secrets does the wet earth keep?

What heavy payment made?