Feeding

The scorching sun on this
white page blinds me,
makes me screw-up my eyes.
Clouds come across
intermittently, giving some
welcome shade, the robins
have been attentive,
opportunistic, when I
move away from the bed
I weed, they find things
to eat that I can't see.
Bees are busy at the
heather and sparrows are
everywhere.  I watch the
trees move, listen to the
wind in the branches.
My fingernails are black:
no gardener has a well-
manicured hand.  My
husband is many miles
away working for his
daily bread.  Here,
I thank God for my time
out-of-doors:  I am
well-fed.

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