Working in the garden patch
the path under bright sun,
unable to see a thing–

it’s become a motif,
to hear bees tend
to the silvered borage,

feel the brush
of nasturtiums spilling
at the feet of trellised beans

as water pools in the rich
black dirt, needle-legged spiders
high-stepping the confluence–

So often in summer
I get a sense of return,
but without leaving;

or is it sun-blinded,
yet feeling as if I see
things more clearly?