Poetry
With a heavy thud, metal scrapes soil,
breaking,
exposing,
lifting,
turning,
shaking loose to repeat again.

Weathered hands stoop low
invading the wound,
scraping,
turning,
prying out the stones.

Light streams into broken ground
warmth pervades cold damp soil.
Gentle hands invade again,
poking,
digging,
planting seeds.

Water drenches
chilling floods of nourishment.
Darkness decends,
the protective cover of soil.
Dormant dreams must lie in wait.
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