The Garden of Little Sorrows
The morning brings an ache
that moves around each day
A back, a knee, a shoulder –
knuckles swollen, as if I’d won the fight.
I ramble along the path with a limp
and an unfortunately located bite from an insect
that was there before me
but as revenge, won’t be there after.
The plants I moved yesterday
slump over, too traumatized by the extra sun
to give a damn, but hungry for me,
the water god, to bring showers.
The sun sears the back of my neck
medium rare with a tinge of pink.
It cares not for the creatures beneath its gaze,
for its sole purpose is to burn, burn, burn.
I bend down to catch another weed
and come eye level with the motor of a bumblebee
I once read that human odors aggravate bees
but I stink of sweat and they ignore me.
I resist gravity and stand up
To witness the aerial acrobatics of Monarchs
Who have deigned to share their royal presence
I pay fealty with large stands of milkweed.
The gardening session is over
I put away the buckets of tools
Punch out for the day, they don’t pay overtime
And leave the manicured wilds to second shift.