Atlas

The smell of earth, freshly dug

Turned over

An autumn field, say,

Or an open grave

Yawning darkly for a coffin

Where once a hand rested on a spade

Now a machine chugs and pulls

Lifting clods like Atlas

Squaring his shoulders to hold a world

Muscles hard as stone

I might bend and crumble the dark loam

Between my fingers

Searching for worms

Dwellers in the dark, cleaners, sorters

My head filled with words like seed potatoes

Ready to be sown underground

Raised up, covered

Raised up again

Until green and nearly flowering

I can reach my hand down

And pull them from the darkness.