her armor is a pair of baggy garden

jeans with clay stained knees

and frayed seams – her boots

bright red rubber

armed with hose and spray

nozzle she does battle with

the truculent sun trying to

reverse the siege of

parched earth

her knuckles are scratched,

pricked as she carefully

tweaks each flower –

off with their heads –

then stealthily browses along

stria searching under

bedraggled

leaves for invading insects

knowing if she slacks off

she will lose the war

the sky begins to turn

pewter a sign the present

skirmish has come to an

end

she hangs up her battle gear,

bows her head, bids farewell

to the retreating sun