Because it loosens the soil,
and by soil, I mean
that part of me you might call
soul, hard-packed
beneath the leaf-mulch
of worry and waste of good weather,
by which I mean time and space
to wonder and wander
through layers
of seed and root,
tunnels and nests,
stone and silt and clay
and bedrock,
I mean 
the hand
that holds us all.