June Afternoon in Maine

One friend wants to paint a snail or the waves.

Another sits on a rock to write a poem.

I mulch the perennials.

Working by a wheelbarrow in front of the house, I look up to say hello to a woman leaning on the arm of her daughter, walking slowly down the road. She nods at the garden, says, “It looks good.”

I’m aware of all that’s still left to weed, clip, and mulch, the spaces where I mean to plant more. But I let in the casual praise that I didn’t beg for, but came freely, like the small new leaves on a stalky star plant I dug from my Massachusetts garden and transplanted here.