You sit on the stump of the old willow
where last stood a luxurious swaying,
deep shade for hot summer days.
Sun falls bright upon your head,
your joints ache from prayer
or thought or long years
of passive watch over this small yard,
the squirrels that make their home
in the stretches of the elm,
the myriad birds flicking water
in the fountain. You rest,
I toil —
I remove weedy barriers
to your eyes,
open vistas for mine.
We dwell upon one another,
me in my creation,
you in yours.