by Samuel Hark

And at this moment, when the rasp sun slices like a sickle through the wisp of scant clouds, I cannot help but think upon the words of that particular peculiar named poet,

So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rain. All in truth except for that sweet respite of rain, I muse to no one but myself and the weeds, as I, the green-thumbed reaper, eradicating

the unsightly root-rotted shrubs, heaving their dusted remains in my heavy red-rusted dead wagon, that has no doubt been long depended on, clearing for your stout stemmed thinnings, long since overgrown,

And when I first came to see you, my hands, slicked wet with sweat and guilt, could no longer bear the weightof your absence, with none to keep by your side, expect for

untended flowerbeds that birth none but the blossoms of my dread, but I have since learned that it is best not to dwell, as so much depends on these days that dare to lend me this dust.