The metaphor is not lost on me

How I tramp through these days in your shoes,
learning to build fences in the early april mud.
There is something very like redemption
in the hardpan, & in the thrust
of shoulders exhuming each fistful
of reluctant dirt. Just as there are many meanings
in un-earth, & some that should stay
buried. Lying next to you at night,
I find comfort in the soft wind
of your inhale; it lessens the sadness by a spade.
There is much that I miss still, or perhaps
it is that I am still searching
for the tools to set the thing right,
to find us plumb again.