My father's garden

The earth will cut hard under the shovel
that snags on old root clumps beneath.
The sole of my foot usually gives up after the third jump.

I’ll work in some rot with my hands,
amending the soil for the winter clover.
It is all preparation, this step and the several that follow.


The packed clay will be full, rich, and scented sharp,
but without the regular revision
it will not allow new roots to take hold.

I’ll till by hand and not machine,
mixing my sweat with the compost
to fully invest myself in the dirt.

Each year that I come back,
turning the remains of last year
back into their ground,

the fruits will grow sweeter and more plump
and the crops will bear more product
and the earth will near its potential

and my belly and heart will swell.