the blue trees

her knees
know her garden,
where the stones
are, the briars,
the thorns,
the rabbit who
finds shelter
in the shed.
her hands move
against
the dirt, and dark
soil, taking out
what needs
to be gone,
planting what
pleases her.
she chooses
the cool hours
after the sun
has left the curve
of what the earth
gives it.
the rake and hoe
in hand,
the sweeping
of her hair,
her eyes looking
up into
the darkening
blueness of trees.