Short, simple and bent-over back tasks
for two hired men and me to get done
before noon’s heat makes our sweat gritty. 
Let lazy dogs watch us. 

Move those boulders back into the rock wall.
That wall the snowplow crumpled in the blizzard.
Finish weed-whacking the path to the four pines 
in the pasture through the stand of goldenrod.

Slide down the ridge into the woods to haul up
rocks shaped like bowling balls or bread loaves. 
Rocks to plug the holes where the little dog
digs under the fence to take joy-runs

to where the fox and coyotes hang out. 
Rake the path to the meditation garden
and lay down fresh pea gravel. Scoop
fetid algae mats from the frog pond. 

                       Little of this matters.  
The sickle-moon framed in the old hickory
will still magic-light the night above fireflies. 
Nothing has snatched a dog yet.   

The world outside my land lines is messy
and mean. Whatever I do today will fall down,
Good Ozymandias. Keeping up the pretense 
of lawn order is only an old woman’s try

at staying sane. 

/

Tricia Knoll is an aging Vermont poet and avid gardener. Her work appears widely in journals — from Kenyon Review to New Verse News. In 2024 she welcomed two new poetry collections: Wild Apples (Fernwood Press) and The Unknown Daughter (Finishing Line Press). She is a Contributing Editor to Verse Virtual. Website: triciaknoll.com