The Rake’s Progress

Branch, frond, fingers, ribs of fish
but man-made, stronger, regular, its form
less lovely, simpler, ready to possess,
briefly as words, everything in its path.
Its studied imperfection leaves behind
much on the first stroke; still it can recoup.
It never gathers all it grasps, and yet,
subtly responsive, its cold claws collect
whatever earth puts forth, stuttering over
stones, adjusting to contingency,
heaping up what once was beautiful
in pass after pass over uneven ground.