Digging is my nature

I’m always digging.
Foot pushes down on the blade,
I turn it over, peel away the fresh soil,
fight with the underlying clay.
Never sure what I’m looking for,
perhaps, it’s just a place to sit
view the world from underneath.
See all of the things I’ve affected,
or have had no effect on,
and what is the reaction
of the only action I ever take?

Weightless
my grandmother used to float
on the lake that raised me,
but every time (and there were plenty)
that I tried to mimic her,
I’d fight with my arms and legs,
and perhaps, it is that peace,
the oneness with her wave
that I keep digging for,
and every time I return
and overturn old memories,
I sink further away from her.

In some ways, I haven’t aged.
Perhaps, I have refused to
and in the refused refuse
of my haven’t lived up to life,
I’ve doddled along,
dragging my dreams on a leash.
Stooping to clean up after
every attempt at lack of success.
It is not the failure I fear,
for if it was,
I wouldn’t bring about the result
so mindlessly,
as if it were the #1 goal
on some half-assed bucket-list.
The one I wrote mid-speech,
as my grandfather lay lifeless,
in that couldn’t look any less like him
open casket three-piece suit.

I grab for the shovel,
break the soil to start the construction
of my overused excuses.
I remember he said to me once,
when the three-piece suit
could still rise at the chest,
“all you need, son,
is a little more confidence”.