My landlord wakes to a dawn
where everything is silent, and even the trees
still linger in the unconsciousness of night.
Dewy grass dampens his shoes
as he strolls out over to his most used patch of land:
the garden. The smells are soft and fresh
and the rain’s clear drops
from the night before
are a blanket strung with pearls,
that drape over the green leaves of lettuce
as he walks over to tend them.

A cricket sounds in the strawberries,
awakening the rustle of wings,
but the bird passes over,
gliding on an invisible thread
through the air.

My landlord’s hands,
rough, yet tender in his work,
soften the moist earth
at the roots of the unwanted,
allowing him to
pull them up,
and let his green, leafy children
live on.