Today I burned sweetgrass incense
while i tended the garden.
A steady eastern wind blew—
so I sheltered the smoking stick
behind the old tree stump near the garden beds.
The scent rose into the sky
and floated through the air—
permeating my yard—
and the neighbors.
It made picking weeds a ceremony.
Something worthy of commencement.
It brought new meaning to the dirt under my nails.