He lines up the timbers carefully
I pull weeds and turn the dirt,
mulch dried leaves and sing a song,
a smile in my heart:
it's time to sow seeds 
and seedlings--
time to believe 
in sympathetic magic 
and sunshine.

I tiptoe past the small symmetries
of the morning, trying to preserve
the balance that will allow
the Bohemian waxwing to stop this time
before diving headlong into the pane.