Cover peels fast--
the fork lifts airy stalks
then lodges in richer stuff:

root veins, root tendons,
amaryllis bulb stabbed through.
Startled by light, worms untie.
Deeper, the dark cake breaks.

I swing raw earth to the gardenside,
the first crop, the last of last season.
I sway. The ground
again makes me do it.