Sweeping the Front Yard
In the front yard
of a house deep in slumber
its eyes fast shut
the broom sweeps
into memory
sprouting pustules of soil
at dawn

It is possible that the rain
loosened the earth
last night
Earthworms must have
stirred it deep within,
toiling , perhaps sleeplessly, to
build tiny homes of earth

Only to be razed,
to be scattered,
in finger-streaks
that the broom leaves behind
after the sweeper girl's
morning dance,
her bent backstep

The sweeping done,
dawn breaks
Light falls, the eyes
of the house open
No footprint
Not even fallen leaves
How clean it is!

The newspaper arrives
Having scoured
the depths of night, it falls
stumbling against the door
Then she rises from clearing the last remnants
So thirsty, she’d drink the coffee to its lees.