right hand pointing

we cut weeds that choke the side fence

so snakes will vamoose

 

when rain brushes the pines

like feathers tumbling, swishing

 

quick, you must pull your organic carrots—

no, too late for them—

 

the carrots whisper tops or helpless or other soft words

as rain pelts their sun-cooked flesh

 

thunder

we read books in separate rooms

 

I offer to look at your manuscript, the new one

where “father” comes to life