The Gardener Moves

among the flowers with measured steps. 

At the base of gray-green lichened boulders 
the camouflage stealth of a pair of quiet copperheads
resting in meditative calm await 
the inner urge to move again 

not to strike but 
like slow Spanish trains on a summer night 
pulling out of the Montes de Toledo 
to slip slowly across the arid but fertile plateau of La Mancha
heading for the limestone spurs of Cuenca, 

attracted by the promise of the quick dart 
of red velvet voles, 
of chocolate chipmunks, 
or the scent of plump cicadas 
on savory air speared by tines of a sensitive tongue rare
petit fours to be swallowed whole and digested slow for
the sweet tooth full of syrup 
that paralyzes with a venomous kiss. 

Among the flowers the gardener steps 
with measured moves.

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