Sunlight rests thinly only on the upper side of the leaves. The sky-blue blade of the pruning shears has just touched a slender branch, and the index finger of the right hand marks the spot to be cut. Under the sleeve of a pink shirt the tendons on the back of the hand stand out, and the green behind has lost its shape and blurred. It is the dry light of early afternoon.
While looking at the photograph, the shoulders drop a little. The breath pauses briefly, following the position of the blade, then loosens again. The eyes lose focus into the blurred background, then gather again on a single leaf vein.
Tending is looking closely before it is cutting away. To choose which branch to leave, you have to stop for a moment, and that pause resembles the moment when the mind gives up hurrying.
Pick one leaf from a nearby pot or from the green by the window, lay it on your palm, and slowly wipe both sides with a damp cloth. How about following with your eyes as the dust lifts and the color deepens.
On an evening spent waiting for the kettle to boil, there is room for the same movement of the hands. If you stand holding the leaf and facing the direction the sound of water is rising from, it becomes easier to notice whether the eyes are fixed on the leaf veins or have moved to the spout where the steam is climbing. It would be enough just to look at where the focus is caught. Watching which way the eyes move first when the boiling sound grows louder, that short shift, is enough.
The leaf you have wiped will be quietly green in the evening light as well.
