My pitchfork pierces the red clay
Churning up dense clods 
A squirm of earthworms
Startled by the light
Like ancient cave dwellers
Discovering fire or the sun  

It will take more
Than a family of worms
To soften this dense plot
The clay could be calculus
In its hardness
As difficult as describing a color
That does not exist in this world  

I switch to hoe and hand rake
Wrestling the earth into pieces
Blending buckets of dark rich compost
A pinch or two of coarse sand
A thousand droplets of sweat  

Working ground until shoulders wail
For relief and knees beg me
To just take up pottery instead
Gravity has its way with my exhaustion
As I ugly plop onto the grass to rest
My foot accidentally kicks up the hoe
Handle thumping my forehead
Barely missing my eye
As I scramble out of the way
My elbow whacks the metal bucket  

Head bowed in utter submission
Tears drowning the soil beneath me
I rub my head and arm in agony
Lie back in the grass and shut my eyes
My body screaming outrage to my brain 
Buy a bench!  it cries
Why a bench?   logic brain asks
Shorter distance to fall!  answers body
Heart already dreaming
The weathered wooden seat    
Soft colorful pillows   
A glassy tilt of iced tea