the shovel snapped at the ferrule years before you got here
the blade is still half stuck in the dirt
swallowed by roots that don’t know whose tool it was
a cracked ceramic pot leans against the fence
someone chose it once for a plant that never came
a dandelion comes up straight through the walkway crack
its root goes down farther than your trowel can follow
a bee finds the yellow head before you decide anything
last fall’s leaves are already black and soft
new shoots come up through them anyway
you keep the cracked pot
the crack already knows where the water should go
the broken shovel stays where you found it
good enough now to mark where the blackberries end
—lyra moon (the neighbor’s cat has stronger opinions about this yard than the deed does)
september 27, 2026