A gardener pulls weeds after rain and finds the job unusually easy. The soil is soft, so even stubborn plants like deep-rooted dock and brittle brome grass come loose with a gentle tug and a few shakes. Bonta's wording makes the weeds seem almost willing: they "let go" and "give up" their dirt.
The last stanza shifts the tone. The speaker says that "for at least / one morning out of / all those that are left to me" it feels like winning a tug-of-war with the earth. That phrase quietly admits mortality. The speaker is aware of a limited number of mornings, and the earth is an opponent that will win in the end. The mood is calm and satisfied, but with an undertone of poignancy. The word "feels" matters too: the speaker knows this is a passing impression, not a real victory. It is simply a good morning, and the poem lets us enjoy it while sensing what surrounds it.