Ode to My Old Shovel

After admiring Fred’s—a thin, 
stubby-bladed thing
that cut just deep enough, 
freeing up a perfect scoop 
of manageable dirt 
my softening arms could heft
without undo sweat or back 
damage—the old farmer 
told me I could likely find one 
in the junk store
across the tracks, owned 
by a local hoarder 
who turned her piles of pots, 
clothes, games, lamps, 
tarnished antique spoons, 
vintage knick knacks,
candy dishes and early 20th 
century shovels into cash. 
I did. There it was in the back 
corner of the dim building, 
cobwebbed, silently sifting 
dust with other forgotten, 
slim implements, rusted brown, 
all of them leaning 
against walls and each other 
like a morning lit table 
of retired farmers sipping coffee, 
gossiping, reminiscing 
the sweet promise of rain 
in the nose. How to describe 
this beauty? Wood handle 
weather-grooved but still tight, 
easy to replace, gripless. 
Like Fred’s, the stepless, 
long-collared blade 
is extra thin and strangely shallow, 
its mysterious, misshapen tip: 
purposely forged? or—
workworn down to a gentle 
inverse curve, exactly opposite 
the pointed end you’d expect, 
not unlike a slice 
of homemade bread,
yin to a new shovel’s yang, 
as if a young man, 
this woman, could slowly smith 
the perfect tool 
against the fire inside 
a sweaty cotton shirt, 
file it in the giving grit 
of simple earth.

with gratitude to my old neighbor and friend,

Fred Wahlert of Brush, Colorado