Digging dandelions summer by summer—
I regard them, hundreds by now, thousands,
but my work doesn’t do any good, our yard the same
as when I started, steely roots clutching earth.
In the Desert Sayings, a monk weaves baskets
day after day, and every year gathers
them into a pile he consigns to flames,
the weaving more about his hands
forming mantras than any useful work.
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