[Eleanor]: 668.Contest entries.Unlazy Poets.May 2008 - Lay

The earth is hard beneath my spade;
I break the clods up with its blade.
The winter's past, at last it's spring,
the trees a-bloom, birds on the wing;
and I now stick my hands in soil
and, like old miners, I will moil,
but not for gems or metals dear.
Instead my object is to clear
away the rocks and pull the weeds
so I can plant my basil seeds.