Weeding – despair. Too late
To rescue my daylilies
from months of crabgrass,
pigweed, common couch?
I pull close to the root,
like tearing hair,
a careless giant’s grassy hair,
matted with vines and thorns.
Sticky with sweet, I stoop
to clear some breathing room
and call the lilies’ names:
Shadow Play, Cold Harbor,
Ruffled Apricot, Pink Pearl.
Between dead stalks, I find
a snake skin, white and dry
and whole. Two feet of pattern,
perfect – until I lift it. Oh,
little snake, I never saw you,
never knew you lived
here, too, but I am glad
to find the self you shed,
reminding me of all the good
that lives invisibly
as I am as invisible as you.