Mind wandering, eyes fluttering
in the gray, middle ground
between clasped hands
and the blank horizon,
I work the cool, straight bone
of broomstick rhythmically,
undeliberately, sweeping

the littered walkway. As I push
the leaves into heaps like shards
of weathered parchment torn
from some, unimaginable, ancient
library, they spill in waves
gathering at the prow of the broom,
raising a fine spray of dust

which wets on my unwiped brow;
a long wake trails away
that I'll go back for, eventually.
After every step has been swept
thoroughly of every trace,
remembering the last, I grasp
the lowest branch
and shake the tree.