Or, Sometimes

you'll come to this, lovingly rooting in earth, gently setting to one side fat worms, watching them sink from sight with shrugs of their nonexistent shoulders. As your wrists dry up, caked in clay, you'll look around you, and your small red barn, your irises, your bamboo patch, your ash and oak, your three unfurling maples whispering in the breeze, your white house bracketed in lilacs, breathing smoke, your woodshed stacked with fir, your mint and parsley putting on new life, your pears and apples, your geese in their bright plumes will bring to you the thought of what this is that you are digging, bit by troweled bit.

Assuming that the clouds will come, which now they do, you will take things as they are, and so you simply walk, with even-tempered gaze, toward the house for a late cold lunch: one without words, for there are no words to share what it was your hands said to the green earth even now.