Fork and anchor

Sun-cold-day, fresh cutting air
loud with birdsong.  I knelt,
dug, pulled, pushed, lifted
tried to beat down the weeds and grass
invaders.  Long hours, body
battered, hands and wrists in
pain once I was done, forced
in by the time, the day had waned.

Time eluded me:  no prayer, late
shower, there are limits to what
the body can do despite
the will.

Small anchor, hooked into the river
bottom holds my thoughts despite
the drift and current, rode
alternately tight and loose.  I must
not lose the feel of the chain.

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