Mother wipes the sweat
From her forehead with her forearm.
In her fist are pine needles she must spread around a tree
As if she were wrapping a towel over her wet child.

Father rubs his palms against his jeans
As he examines the garden bed for weeds.
He spots one and digs his fingers ‘till he feels the roots.
He pulls as if he were plucking lint off his child’s clothes.