My landlord wakes to a dawnwhere everything is silent, and even the treesstill linger in the unconsciousness of night.Dewy grass dampens his shoesas he strolls out over to his most used patch of land:the garden. The smells are soft and freshand the rain’s clear dropsfrom the night beforeare a blanket strung with pearls,that drape over the green leaves of lettuceas he walks over to tend them.

A cricket sounds in the strawberries,awakening the rustle of wings,but the bird passes over,gliding on an invisible threadthrough the air.

My landlord’s hands,rough, yet tender in his work,soften the moist earthat the roots of the unwanted,allowing him topull them up,and let his green, leafy childrenlive on.