All winter they waited,
the ***** the fork, the *** —
lying quiet in the shed,
their edges softened
by months of cold forgetting.
Rust took them gently,
a thin red bloom
on every blade and tooth,
as if the earth itself
had marked them for rest.
But spring steps in
with a warmer hand,
and the gardener lifts each tool,
feels the weight,
tests the tired shine.
A little toil,
a little sweat,
and the rust gives way
to honest steel again —
bright where it matters,
strong where it counts.
Then back into the soil they go,
cutting, turning, waking the ground,
bringing new life forward
with every stroke.
We weather, we dull, we wait,
until the world calls us
to rise once more,
polished by purpose,
ready to make things grow.