Her Garden Poem by Autumn R

The monarch skids the sky above,
the paper wasps at play.
The wind and the sun ebb through the day,
as scuttling centipedes trace tomorrow's vein.
There is still so much left to do —
 the soil to turn,
 the vine and leaf to trim,
 the songs to carry through the air.
And so, she returns.
The cardinals still chase
 the wrong red millipede,
still build their nests —
 twig by twig, with patient speed.
The trees sing softly with the winged ones,
 while nestlings dream of what's to come.
With every breath,
creation stirs —
 to fall,
  to rest,
   to rise once more.
For she lives in that momentous, quiet motion,
in every small persistence of the earth,
in each blue porterweed that climbs
 to meet the faithful sun.