Men at Watering by Tom Sheehan

Men at watering divine
the pulse in it, douse petals
much as root work, believe
them cleaner, deserving.

In hill shanks, between
other’s houses, as August
suns filter down, these men
let go, how thick hawsers

unwind in naval dusk.
Often they train harshly
on leaf, stubborn blade,
and lose the water’s act.

They stare at that fighting
back. When twilit cars
pass in salute, slowed by
evening’s deed, watering

men fix where water empties
itself, at earth-damp,
at the heeded and awful
promise of return.