A sorority of snowdrops dots the garden,
broccoli buds with crimply leaves emerge.
A breeze quivers the ferny leaves of bleeding
hearts. A young ribbon snake tends the garden,
scouts for weevils and cutworms, whiffs
the thyme and dill and mint with its tongue.
After a rain when the garden is damp and cold,
Snake thrusts through an opening in the corner
of the sun-porch and toast sits thin body
where sun spills onto the brick floor.

The poet rocks in her chair. Her poetry books -
Stanley Kunitz, Mary Oliver, D. H. Lawrence-
collapse on her lap as she nods into slumber.
A spider skulks in a crack of the brick floor.
Its hairy legs frenzy up her body under her clothes.
Its fangs plungeinto her flesh.
Each day she discovers welts in swollen
congregations on her graceful neck,
on her breasts and arms and wrists,
welts that harbor relentless itch.
While she naps she does not Snake
meditating as she rocks in her rocks in her chair: scratches, composes, and scratches.

Snake spies the spider’s errands.
It salivates for this morsel,
but senses it must be agile
as spider is quick. It slips up the poet’s body,
eases around her middle,
trembles with readiness.
Spider ascends, Snake springs.
It bites down with petite and even teeth,
swallows it whole,
curls up in the corner and meditates.

The poet wakes without an itch.
She beholds the snake: blue stripes
taper down its olive back,
topaz eyes glaze on its head.

She appreciates its elegance and quietude.
Snake surges up her lap and purrs.

She realizes Snake has delivered
her from itch and pestilence.
It has transported grace from the garden
into her writing space. She pets it,
dry and warm as a stone a child
grasps from the beach to skip on water.
It expands and contracts,
while she basks in the sun,
rocks, and writes her manuscript.
In the garden a Carolina wren
cocks its tail with a moth in its beak.
A red fox trots on long black legs.
Japanese primrose rise and hum.