Ode to a Shovel

Digging with a shovel always makes me hungry. It’s too much like a spoon, I suppose, & the soil too close to food here: heavy, brown,

& as full of foreign objects as any stew. The shovel is both tongue & tooth on a white ash body twice as big around as a broom.

I love groundbreaking, holding the handle out like a dance partner, momentarily solemn until the first absurd little hop onto the top lip of the blade

& the fast ride down, barring a sudden & jarring contact with rock or tree root. I love cutting sod & setting the shovel aside

to worry the dirt free from each clump. I love giving the earth a new — if temporary — mouth & listening for the harsh syllables of rock on steel.

I even like jollying the blade around some impediment that threatens to snap the handle, feeling the thing budge & loosen & at last let go,

& the shovel cradles its unlikely prize, sharp-edged & slick with charisma: a tool nobody’s invented a use for yet.