A Contest

I went out this morning

with the teeth of my rake

to wrestle a bit with the dormant earth.

I don’t know who won.

Certainly the pokeweed

her massive root, a living, wet vegetable

clung for her life

while the dry grasses of last summer’s weed

rolled easily into bales

right out of the garden gate

and seemed relieved to be done with the covering.

And most assuredly

The pungent humus

exhumed

let out a silent exhale

and shuddered proudly in the rawness

at the top of the pile.

Surely my arms,

burning at the shoulder

or heart

finding equanimity in the tussle and scrape

were no worse or better than the roots that crackled

with each rip

There was no anger on either of our part,

no real competition to speak of

and of reverence

I can only prostrate down so low before I am buried beneath it.