I’ve swept off the patio
Twice this week and leaves
Have come back to pile
Into the corners and crevices
And under the legs of the table.
I don’t know why I keep
Refilling the birdbath
Other than I enjoy seeing
The birds throwing the water up
Into the sunlight and drinking
From it, their heads back as if whistling.
For that I carry a bucket of water
Every other day.
Yesterday I noticed new weeds
Growing between the rows of lettuce.
I remember feeling peaceful
In a Japanese dry garden
And read later that every twig
Is picked up and every leaf is raked
Into waves daily. And the person
Who does it is looking
For something, too:
Rumi says, “Keep walking.
There’s no place to go.”