Blue heron stands in hard stemmed bulrushes
lost Styrofoam cup behind horse stables
I’m cleaning waste places wiping up tables
hills spackled with Indian Paintbrushes
These are keeping places, safe ground sodden
from tip to bow below basalt where tide
would overflow without these roots leeside
Moses’ basket, holy’s hidden
they lock the edge where water dries to mud
rivulets cut paths through foggy washes
unlike us, weather does as it wishes
its blind prayers defy our gloves, shovels, blood
thus, bullrushes make cloaked and cloistered rooms
wind shudders from tip to shoulder to bow
storms jiggling the keys burgling the shore now
they close the door from the sea, protective brooms