The Hole

(for Robert Frost)

There’s something about a hole.
How the spade cuts the earth
first the back of the hole
then the front—the sides.
How the spade snuggles
under the loose earth
to lift it out.
The pile of clean earth
loose at the side of the hole
the shape it takes.
Most holes are not round
the small roots that appear at the sides
the clay and rocks that disturb
the symmetry.
You go on handling the spade
cutting the shape and depth
of the hole which appears
in a negative three dimensions slowly
before you.
You may be planting a tree
or burying the dead.
You may be placing a fencepost
or a foundation for cement.
The hole making continues in the quiet morning
the spade strikes echoing
in the silence.
The hole will contain life and death
it is the great recycler
death to life.
My poor dead bird
its feathers pink against
the deep humus
will grow a mulberry tree.