The Shovel

It stands in the shed,
metal rusty and handle worn,
furrows now fallow
as summer sleeps under snowy sheets.

Was a day when digging
unearthed the heart,
subtle stabs reveal the soil’s fertility.

Mind affixed in fascination
over the blossoms yet to be.
But weeds choked the life,
crops yielding less harvest
than appeared on midnight’s field.

Spring beckons in the fireplace,
in flames that remind of rebirth,
sipping on an aged brew
how it numbs the view of seasons,
no strength left to lift that shovel
from recalling what never flowered.