What We Must Do

by Frederick Wilbur

As soon as snow disappears
from the weather forecast,
I rake the gravel that plows have left
in moraines along the state right-of-way.

As a conscientious citizen,
I maintain this grass strip —
otherwise, the curve ahead would
be weed-blind and a prayer too late.

Through the grass which sprints
toward a mowing, the silver tines
coax the stones toward coal shovel
and wheelbarrow.  A ragged sweeping
to be sure, a modest precaution.

I return the gray rocks to roadside gulley.
My rotator cuff curses the budging
of boulders from the suck of earth.
Perhaps this is a small price.

Resting, I notice a honeybee
on the season’s first dandelion
as bright as any hope and I wish
her well in gleaning the weed’s dust.
I know it is what she must do
for her hive to survive.