Playing In The Dirt Poem by D. S. Jones

Tiredness fill every bone
From pulling weeds
From seeds long sown
Unaware.
Or those that came from roots below
Now sturdy plants that firmly grow
Where I must work with rake and hoe,
Upon my garden fair.
That evenings work has come and gone
(Though garden work is never done)
I ache with stiffness that has come
To me alone.
But Springtime's work must have its yield
With nodding plants across the fields
And growing beauty that each moment builds
From labor, time has shown.
But how I wish I had some shield
For weeds were not alone the kill
My evening spent with tools and will
I knew that I would hurt.
But did I stop and give such heed
Or lessen up my working deed?
Not I! continued on in constant speed
When I played in the dirt.