Hard Ground

I shove the spade into the patch of weeds

hoping for something soft and black.

I’ve got a plastic pot of rose and seeds,

but the shovel blade just jars my back.

Six inches down there’s a slab of stone,

a gray secret the landlord never told.

I’m digging in this yard all alone

trying to find a place for roots to hold.

My fingers are caked in a dry, gray crust

that a bar of soap won't ever reach.

I’m leaving this yard to the wind and dust

and the concrete buried under the beech.