A glance through the knothole,
visiting the world beyond;
land bare and unkempt,
the loud siren song wails.

One familiar soul
tilling the dust,
optimism intermingled
with the sadness of reality.

My entirety wills my sanity
crawling through the gate;
the creep under duress
every movement laced with fear.

The long-watched tiller,
apathetic determination
as his repetition yields no progess;
each fork tine only displaces,
no furrow for growth produced.

I asked this sad apparition,
sensing that I knew what he'd say;
"why do you use a turning fork,
why do you not use a spade?"

His answer was haunting,
seemed I'd heard it before;
A shovel will produce a hole,
and something must be planted.

"I do not wish to start something,
a goal that must be finished;
I'm content to toil
not risking some growth,
no responsibilities to harvest."

I wish I had stayed
behind the knothole of safety,
for now I have seen,
and understandably heard
that this apparition was me.