Her job's detecting errors God has made
Designing Summer Street: this busted curb,
These tattered feathers, wrappers, dented cans.
Forever stopping, stooping, in pale charade
Of chores her mother's set her to, deferred
By rapt attention to detail, she scans
Detritus, bark, branches, torn wings of seeds,
Thin husks that stalked or shaded summer's grass --
Then sighs brief prayers for lives she never knew.
Her older brother hauls dead leaves and feeds
The hose its coil, then snipes at her, who'd pass
Her hours in gawking, still so much to do...
She scrapes the lawn a bit, a guiltless thief
Who leans to pocket gold: one perfect leaf.