She sneaks pages of The Old Man & the Sea between weed pulling & watering, endless crabgrass she can never truly be done with even in sleep. Those pages feel more alive when stolen between sky & the body at work. Chrysanthemums & words. Alone, maybe she phones home on her lunch break to say the dogwoods are a different kind of sea closing in & she can never catch all the golden falling leaves. She will return to her lawnmower day after day until she is an old woman disarmed & drifting at sea. Does she dream of swans or another kind of balm. Does she arrive home & tell of the infinitesimal color changes of resurrection & dying, shifting flight patterns & nesting of birds & bees & pages. How the leftover rain has taken her duty for the day & maybe it was meant to be. That our hands are miraculous meant for so much more than worrying.