Terce

I go into the Garden to work
Sun-hungry stalks of corn ripple in the wind.

The dust I kick up, hoeing,
Hacking at the earth, wafts and twists away.

The grass and weeds I cut have moved in,
Their yellow stubble besiege the fence.

Stubborn roots tunnel under
To find the open space, the light. 

In spring, this earth was dark
And moist, crumpling under the slightest step.

Today, it is crusted and sun-baked
Waiting for the driving rains to fall.

I do what I can and bring the hose.
The earth drinks. I leave.

It still needs work-on another day-
Like my ever-healing soul.

For me, and (I think) for you,
To work these earths is good.