Working in my garden, or rather
what could become a fruitful
plot of harvest next year,
I dig into the hard root-infested ground,
hitting rock after rock.
My spade clinks loudly.
As sweat swells, stinging my eyes,
I stoop to pick up something
sparkling in the sunlight.
Turning it over in my hand,
this seemingly insignificant stone
somehow feels like a part of me.
Lost in the midst of dirt and roots,
covered over by years of weeds,
pushed down deep into forgotten.
Persevering in the dirt,
I scan for the broken
you left behind,
when I was never the right kind
of your acceptable.
I put each one into my pocket
that love will gather them into
more than enough.
(Originally appeared in Birchsong: Poetry Centered in Vermont, vol. 2)