Drive around a corner and I see
an old man on his knees pulling weeds.
For a second I thought he was panning for gold.
Or it was like the way they would harvest herbs
from the hillside, or collect stones and flints
and chipped points, seeds sown and
a child in the womb
coming with the rains.
Among the fringes, the frontier,
the skirt, the verge,
the spring, and the weeds,
I wonder if the old man and his knees felt more
humiliation or maybe