The speaker feels cut off from other beings, unable to "say a word to them," yet still sure that connection is possible. The opening repetition, "For me/ even for me," sounds like someone insisting on a place in the world despite feeling like an outsider. Wherever the speaker stands, there is a woman in front of them, and the poem puts her on the same level as a violet or a bunch of ants. That may suggest the speaker sees everything living with the same quiet attention, though it could also hint at shyness, a habit of seeing people as small, distant presences.
The parenthesis "I conspire with them" is the warmest moment. It sounds secret and playful, as if the speaker shares an unspoken understanding with these creatures that needs no language. The final image, a hand like "a bamboo rake," is odd and a little awkward: light, stiff, made for gently combing the ground. The mood is tender and tentative, with loneliness and longing in balance.