You want to know how I spend my time?
I walk the front lawn, pretending
to be weeding.
You ought to know I'm never weeding, on my knees, pulling clumps of clover from the flower beds: in fact I'm looking for courage, for some evidence my life will change, though it takes forever, checking each clump for the symbolic leaf, and soon the summer is ending, already the leaves turning, always the sick trees going first, the dying turning brilliant yellow, while a few dark birds perform their curfew of music.
You want to see my hands? As empty now as at the first note.
Or was the point always to continue without a sign?

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