Ankle-deep in dandelion stalks and crab grass
that's terrorized the lawn since I ruined the mower

(pretty girl, tree stump), I yank thistle plants
and weeds as penance, the stickers getting

through despite my rubberized work gloves;
sweat stings my eyes in the broiler-plate

heat of an August afternoon, and the patches
of briars and leafy spikes seem to grow,

to menace, to say you haven't the slightest
idea how indispensable you are and I don't argue.

The great Chinese poets hunched as I do now,
spoke with the world in a language like silver lines

upon a gown of dark silk touched by a quick wind--
they knew what it was to greet the long sweet day,

to awaken oneself from the forest of meditation.
I rub my forehead dry ad strangle free another weed.

I am not a Chinese poet. I am not a firebrand preacher.
I am anything but a gardener, and this is not how I pray.