Sanctified

I love my shovel. It’s my oldest friend, but

I did not welcome it with an open palm.

No. My father pried my fingers apart, then

Closed my fist around its handle, my uncles

And grandfathers nodding their approval. I

Was already thirteen; late by family

Standards, but not too late for me to get

Comfortable carrying it lazily on my

Shoulder or balanced precisely in my hand

As I strode the field of sorghum that my dad

Had planted. I used the shovel in all seasons:

To cut weeds sponging up our plants’ water;

To free a tractor stuck in winter muck;

To lift a sapling I was trying to straighten;

To fill a hole in an irrigation dike;

To transport the corpse of our pet puppy, Buck,

To his final resting spot in our back yard;

And of course, to dig, and dig, and dig, and dig.

The shovel became as much a part of me

As any tool does for someone who uses

It constantly. Still, when I at last left home

I left the shovel behind, not missing it

Until the year my wife and I bought our home.

I looked at a wild back yard in Lynnwood:

No lawn. I realized I would best dig up

The past. I bought a shovel, blistered my hands

Again; again used it to disembowel the ground

For both our lawn and for Diane’s studio.

I still knew how to cut and peel the surface.

I took that shovel with me to Hawai‘i,

Where I use it for my small, middle-age tasks.

My daughters have not asked to learn my art

And I will not pry their fingers open

Yet should they ever wish to plane the earth

Mold it with their arms, my friend will be here.