We keep no garden while the drought hammers
the yard to cinders. By day, rabbits stand
brazen in the clover, which means they number.
Here’s where we dug deep to uproot the invasive
Norway maple, where we spliced raspberry bushes
the spiders own, & where we planted a fig tree
to learn we don’t like figs, where the firewood
that has seen winter is seasoned into best burning,
but where a diligence of insects colonizes
beneath the wood’s brown tarp. What’s ends up
in the amber of our errors is the living
we did in the skin of the flaw. From the steps,
I see where the ice dams grew & poisoned the joist,
where the water sank down the railing & expanded,
but the cracked granite steps are our perpetual altar,
& these devotions are daily. We need no priest
to find the psalms or bend faith to reach us.
We are already singing the song we want to hear.