Cedar, Holly, Redbud
loom over the beds,
so no surprise when
the shovel thumps.

Roots, thick like arms
I fear to sever. So I paw
the soil with a trowel.
Fling dirt back in my face.

Plunge gloved fingers
tease apart the roots–
Hosta, Astilbe, Coral Bell.
Crumble clods in each hole.

A robin oversees my work.
Flitting down from my fence
he sucks worms and grubs
from the upturned earth.