It’s June, the beginning of PoMo, the first day
of gardening with the construction noise next door silenced.
I pull weeds, dig some shade plants to share —  
Shade Begonias and Solomon Seal to be exact,
but exact is not my mood out there with the birds
whose names and calls I cannot remember and I am not
in the mood for Merlin to tell me who they are
nor for figuring what I am smelling this morning,
whether magnolia or the last of the catalpa blossoms.
I want only to breathe in bird song, hands in dirt.