Leverage

The neighbor’s spade hits the dirt with a thud

that vibrates up through the soles of my feet.

I found mine in the shed, crusted with mud

from a yard on a different, quieter street.

The handle is smooth where the palms rubbed it down,

a piece of ash wood that outlasted the chore.

It remembers the clay of a different town

and the things we buried under the porch floor.

You have to find the stone before you push,

or the blade will just skitter and jar your wrist.

It’s a dull, heavy tool for the quiet and the hush,

moving the earth that doesn't care if you exist.