Louise Gluck

Matins

You want to know how I spend my time?
I walk the front lawn, pretending
to be weeding. You ought to know
I'm never weeding, on my knees, pulling 
clumps of clover from the flower beds: in fact 
I'm looking for courage, for some evidence 
my life will change, though 
it takes forever, checking 
each clump for the symbolic 
leaf, and soon the summer is ending, already 
the leaves turning, always the sick trees 
going first, the dying turning 
brilliant yellow, while a few dark birds perform 
their curfew of music. You want to see my hands? 
As empty now as at the first note. 
Or was the point always 
to continue without a sign?