All day we have pulled up vines,
swung blades across tender necks
of plants, felt the strength
of years pulling back.

We want to make a place
that shines with flowers,
reeks of ripened fruit.

All day we have broken pink flesh
of roots, pulled the threads
that hold things together.

The work blisters up in our palms.
Tools splinter from rough handling.
We have done all we will do today.
It could never be enough.