THE WEAVER OF GRASSHOPPERS

At the corner of Lee Garden Road

your wheelchair slips between potted plants,

afternoon’s hours suspended

with your cheek’s faint twitch.

Leaves snag a thready wind

as your slow craft weaves

grasshoppers from grassblades,

as these shadows braid

buildings and people.

Watched, you don’t watch others,

your sure hands spritzing bunched hoppers.

How the spiny blade, bent once,

springs as a trembling antenna.

When the boy stops, hand held out,

and his mother drags him on,

you’re unperturbed, your gaze grass-green,

cool in the restless shade.