the workers in my back yard
shovelling dirt into wheelbarrows
nailing planks together
to create my mother's flowerbeds
beneath the chirping birds
and distant windchimes
the willow's newly-budded branches
swaying together
and apart
as if they made the chiming notes
and me on my roof
with my notebook
not quite certain
is it profound?
is it an allegory?
or is it just a necessary procedure
so that i can smell basil
when i lie in the hammock
and stare up at the underbellies of
the leaves?
quietly watching
as tapemeasures snap
shovels are pushed beneath the grass
and worms are unknowingly
sliced in half