There has been talk lately about a poetic form called a golden shovel, this is not one but it's what came as I thought of a shovel...
The shovel
Is the only tool that rests in knowledge
of worth. Year-round it is called upon,
needed to dig and scoop, pile and pat.
The garden, the yard, the flowerbeds in spring
John’s little kitten mashed beneath the tractor’s
tire. Each job the shovel comes to stoic
and silent, ready for each level of gravity.
Winter mornings, across the shoulders, it is
taken to the frozen creek to open the watering
hole (again) for the cattle.
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