The weeder prays on hands & knees
amid spiderwort spears & lobelia’s
starry blue. The morning’s cool
gold sky rises over a chilly breeze.
The weeder sweats in the afternoon
silence holding sway over lily tongues
& hibiscus bowls. A red-tailed hawk
skates over oaks, wings forked.
The weeder sits back, palms on thighs,
surrounded by sunflower beams
& spinning asters. Evening’s leaves
shake & burn under a reaper’s moon.
The weeder gazes out window
over snowy floor of hills & ice-hung
hawthorns. Basin-shaped imprints
of her knees in flower beds whisper
the flora-to-be—sharp green pushing up,
cracking hard soil, surging moonward,
grazing on sun, flocking the weeder
as she murmurs orisons with her hands—
calloused grace, fingertip litanies.