It is to throw your back into the swing,
to guide, gently as you may, the hurtling mattock
to land true, or risk your feet, your eyes, your work.
It is to make a choice, firmly fixed in the face of a featureless plot,
"there, and nowhere else, shall I dig, and for thus",
to commit, to strain, to never quite be as deep as it seemed you were,
to overturn innocuous earth, unexpected roots, and the dwellers below the surface.
It is violence turned to the end of growth, of planting the good and uprooting the bad.
It is fine enough alone, but better with two, and best with your family,
with boys eager to watch, learn, help, and dig their own ways as seem best to them.
It is to plant, to water, to wait, once the digging is done,
for it was done to a purpose, that fruit may come in time.