the plastic hose is anathema,
the skin of a snake of hard water.
The weeds, flourishing among them
in their innocence of green,
trust the blue of a sky
from which no hoe has ever fallen.
In their pews of earth, they worship
with their congregation
of wind, rain and sun.
They wait in the fields for the children
they’re sure will seek them out,
bunch them in their tight little fists,
and for the humblest of occasions,
offer them up as gifts.