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Work
by Cheryl Snell

We’re out in the yard, doing what we do—
he’s raking, I’m dividing bulbs. If you go
with perennials, you never start from scratch.

When we’re done, he tucks my hand in his.
Our stack of lined palms and thin-skinned fingers
nest like sparrows returned to the redbud tree.

One spring, they came in with a ribbon tied
to a burst balloon. Lashing one end to a branch,
they wove the satin through their cup of netted twigs.

It took them hours; and while they worked, they sang
as if courage had nothing to do with it.






 

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