Brought to my knees among
the faithful
and steady-hellebore's cream
bells swaying
February to sununer, spiderwort
preening her
lavender wings--I call my
daughter to join me
outside while I weed the
vinca. For a moment,
to humor me, she leaves
the chill breath of air
conditioning. I point to
my favorites--peony,
columbine, trillium--noting
which craves sun
or shade. Each name weighed
like wooden blocks
stacked in the years before
she tried her tongue,
for the thrill of knocking
down. The names tumble
from her loose hands, salt
forms on her lips.
When I have a yard,
she tells me, I will pave it
over and paint it red.
One day, I say. One day you
will kneel
in the church of gnats and
sweat and bless
the salt burning your eyes.
Ready for the word
and the way, you will come
to my garden. Again
we,will sing the alphabet
into being: holly, hydrangea,
hosta--your tongue resting
on each like a polished
stone, a pea, a pearl. H
for
handle of shovel
and trowel wom dark and
slick. W for wisteria
twirling its grape homs
as you pass by. I letter
your pages with rain and
drought, bone meal
and potash, roots of time
and its quick tick:
Dog days will knock down
your petaled bridges;
all winter you will hear
uneasy drumming
in the fireplace, thinking
it only the sizzle
of resin; spring at last
brings you out,
your leafy heart branching
up and up.
And when I have joined the
deep dream above
and beneath, remember the
secret of stray seeds
in the cuff of your workpants:
how they sprout
without reason, how good
to bend the body
to the yellow harvest. The
ground you break
and raise in your image
will blacken your heels,
map the ends of your fingers--call
to burrow
and unearth, back the way
you have come.
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