Out on the porch,
I lace up the old green sneakers,
fit like a foot-glove, I’d wear them inside if I could
but they’re muddy, perfect for garden-traipsing
and short strolls

My gloves, similarly fit my hands like a glove, as they should,
for that’s what they’ve been made for

I trample and pull weeds, respectively, that’s what gardeners do,
I enable the rest to breathe, encourage, resuscitate

To the beat of staying alive I pump the world
to assure pulmonary palpitation not precluding anyone

I save one-fifth of all reaped
to seed the coming year

Chagall 2019