Clipped stems and blades lie in brown mats
against the green of fescue and brome.
Beneath, smothered blades yellow, die.
In the absence of sun and chlorophyll,
they wilt and shrivel like souls
neither giving nor receiving love and grace.

The man who works with me
is not here because of pay or promise
but because of friendship,
the kind of friendship that helps dig postholes
even when August Kansas sends the heat index
into numbers beyond the age of men.

We lift the gas-powered auger,
clear the mounded dirt cone.
He releases the throttle and I hit the kill switch.
“Time for water,” I say.
He nods.

Even under the deeper shade
of the mulberry tree,
clumped and thickly branched,
the heat sends its reach;
breeze tinged by the ninety-five degrees.
A few leaves flinch now and then.

We sit on the scuffed tailgate of the truck,
drink ice water in long, slow sips.

We are soaked with sweat,
but not thirsty. Instead,
we drink from knowing our needs,
from believing that it is this that gives us
what the body desires but is not saying.

Not unlike him who sends his Spirit
to be one who walks alongside us,
refreshing those who labor
in a world of thorns and thistles
under a sun that both heals and kills.

H. Arnett
8/18/10