I picture him digging in the garden,
his sweat muddying the thirsty soil.
How from nothing he could make two
useful things—a trench for planting
(or burying) and the mound where
I perched for a better view, hypnotized
by the rhythm of his shoveling, its
scratch and crunch matching my pulse.
Read more of Michael Montlack’s poetry.
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Photo by Gwen Pearson/Flickr