Drops swell at branch tip
to catch bubble light and, glass like,
wink to the waiting grass.
Even with scrubbing
the new dirt of the strawberry hill
paves the crease in my finger skin.
Between pig pen, and prodigal proof,
I garden with the angel of Eden,
hoping to keep a foot in the gate.
Put down roots, pull up weeds
hoping for another hand
on the wheelbarrow.
Father and Son team,
such a threat to the devil,
such a joy in the spring wet mud.
