Maintenance

I see lots of wisdom in the dirt.

The leaf litter forms a carpet,
dead or in the act of dying,
but entropy is multi-hued;
every sweep of the rake splashes
color through the newly-shorn lawn.
In a dark patch of dirt some weeds
have sprouted that warrant notice -
they were not present yesterday.
Even as I pull up the shoots
I admire their persistence;
well done, little dandelions.
The sun beats fiercely and blindly.
Nature fills my nose with pollen.
In the shade where vegetables grow
I must bend low to pick carrots;

they flourish, as do the long rows
of vivid green tomato vines,
the heirloom yellow onion bulbs
and little forest of spearmint.
Somewhere in my knee, a soreness
that arouses a feeling of
kinship with planters reaching all
the way back to mankind’s cradle,
those patient folk who knelt daily
in the service of a green lord.
Acetaminophen, later.
So much of this yard needs water,
but the sprinkler reaches across
everything, including myself,
who stands beneath it, mouth open.