Digging Post Holes

•

It is the digging, and the taking
away of dirt, that is my first love.
The solemn pile of soil climbing
beside the hole, and the revelation
of the passing layers: topsoil, rock,
sand and clay. The harmony of colors
shifting like a secret. Occasionally, a gift:
tree root, or a perfect round black
rock, suggests some primitive
tool. It is the progress of going
deeply to ground.
The moistness spilling
up like scent with each lift of the digger –
the gripping and letting go
of the small measures that pass
for progress - down below the
frost line - into the continuity
of earth. Unaffected by what
is above, the heaving of my breath,
the pulse threading through my
body, the sunshine over my shoulder,
like hope, spills into the darkness
illuminating the once still earth.