Gardener in Rain

A gardener knows he can’t kill every weed
Even still, every day, in dappled rain
He puts his gloves on, and grabs his spade
And so it is with my music
I know it’s dense, I know it’s toothless
But it soothes, it lets the light in
And for a while, I can wear the absent-minded crown of purpose
It distracts, it amuses
It redeems, it excuses
And with my bells, and my trumpets
I prune back all the lack of joy I take in being a person