Zero at the Bone

When I was little, my Mom would assign me the chore of picking weeds so that I could earn my own spending money. I never understood why it was so important to her to have her gardens be weed-free. I understand now, and absolutely find solice in spending an hour or so, weeding the beds and clipping the undesirables. Today, I lifted a branch from the flowers' bed and was pleasantly startled by what I found there. Immediately, I smiled and began reciting one of my favorite poems by my favorite poet, Emily Dickinson. Read on...can you guess what I found in the garden? C

A narrow Fellow in the Grass
Occasionally rides
You may have met Him, did you not
His notice sudden is
The Grass divides as with a Comb
A spotted shaft is seen
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on
He likes a Boggy Acre
A Floor too cool for Corn
Yet when a Boy, and Barefoot
I more than once at Noon
Have passed, I thought, a Whip lash
Unbraiding in the Sun
When stooping to secure it
It wrinkled, and was gone
Several of Nature's People
I know, and they know me
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality
But never met this Fellow
Attended, or alone
Without a tighter breathing
And Zero at the Bone