Napowrimo Day 11 A final thought.

That first, crisp slice of shovel blade into sod.
 Sun-kissed bruised grass wafts up my nose,
full of memory, and promise.
The turf peels away.
Like skin.
Dark, hidden earth appears.
What delights abound there in?
Scrape of trowel
Dust of brush.
Knees, damp stained with soil
And rough, with ancient aches.
I scratch away at the past.
Silence fills me.
An inch of earth removed.
Rough drag of stones jars against my hand.
Beneath, is revealed to my searching eye...
This past is better left alone.

11t April 2016