December 19, 2017

nothing is futile

Except, perhaps, the leaf blowers, who return to the same street
each week and aim in unison at a pile that will, on the heels
of a breeze that very afternoon, resettle to its innate disorder. Or the driver
who shrieks at the car in front, then leans on the steering wheel for emphasis,
imagining the horn's uninterrupted wail will loosen the gridlock. 
Or the pugilist who remains in the ring long after the fight's been called,
throwing punches in a desperate pantomime to woo the opponent back.  
But you. You who offer your quiet, loyal ministrations to whatever garden
you are tending. You who stay bent to the task, despite the incalculable time it takes
to bear fruit. You who keep your gaze on the ground, on the air, on the seeds.