Monday, June 8, 2020

The drone of justice whirs
quietly in the distance,
maneuvering around plots
and beds, not always with care. 

It repeats and sputters,
turning up stones and slicing
away the overgrowth:
a called-for trim.

The sweat of its operator 
settles above ruffled brow 
and squinting eye, drying
slowly in the morning sun.

Their last patch crossed, 
motor cut, they wipe and sigh,
enjoy the fresh scent of their labor
and move on to the next.

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love notes
a ritual to start the work week