sunny day
after Easter
the neighbor boy
rakes through
the brambles
with all the patience
of a Catholic,
steady strokes
cleansing their yard
of stubborn oak leaves
and winter trash,
the trumpet vine
and lopped roses --
dead wood
and snow-burnt
grass, all gathered
in a circle
triumphantly set
ablaze and smoldering
toward heaven,
the yard now redeemed
by this ceremony,
by this sacrament
of smoke and ash.
His sister brings
a fistful of wieners
they impale
on barbecue forks
and snack on,
burst and
sizzled flesh.
My penance?
To observe this
carnal worship,
this Spring sweetness,
and beg forgiveness
for my sons and I,
how we raked
our hard scrabble
in haste, in haughty
anger, shouting
at the wind,
cursing our lot,
the very life
we were borne
into, the punishment
of raking.
