We're all bent over like those plyboard behinds
you see in yards near and south of Branson;
My neighbors and I garden in respective squares;
we weed, shovel the mulch, mow, and
attack vicious honeysuckle and mint that I've
planted. Across the high wooden fence,
I hear more mowers of my unseen slip of land
inhabitants. We all work these pieces over
like we're pondering garden parties for relatives.
We all work these pieces over like shame.
I feel my back stretch over and over as I
bend to shovel and tear roots. In August,
the vine will be everywhere, I'm afraid.
But, like everyone else, I'm out on my area
to work the growth, bending, pulling, hauling --
A spring Saturday for us all to experience
what is natural and normal, and, amazingly,
for all the noise and large upward rearends,
particularly neighbor Ralph's, restoring.
A quiet spot can't be found but light floats
all around and the leaves flare up with wind
and tree peony teases with her flushing frills
and I am lost in the lot, my floral holding pen.