Yard Work

My leather gloves, wrinkled and soft with old sweat
cushion my hands against the weedeater’s buzz.

Through them, I feel the toughness of nightshade stems
and the brittle snap when they break

above them, the savage rasp of broomstraw
leaves fine lines of blood on my arms.

The yard is lush with rain: fresh-cut grass squishes,
slick underfoot. On my ankle, the hot acid stab of a thistle.

Sun burns at the back of my neck
but breeze offers a welcoming caress.

Under the camellias, the shade is deep and cool
and years of dry leaves crunch at my tread.

I saw at the neighbor’s smoke tree, coating my hands
with sticky sap. The rosebush offers a cat’s claw handshake.

I rest, leaning against the retaining wall, concrete
pitted and crumbly, sucking moisture from my skin.

Dandelion leaves are velvet.
I run my hand through a crisp stand of mint
and smell my fingers.

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