Even this late, he soaks the sweet pea
seeds to plant in hopes of a September
bloom, right near the start of my forty-seventh
year. I've gone too many years without a yard
full of flowers. The fingers of iris leaves
reaching through soil to sun, columbine opening
their shy faces behind the ferns.
In apartments through my younger days,
gazing out windows at cement walkways
or birds landing on power lines, wanting
to turn the earth--in more ways than one.
I planted words in rows instead of seeds,
put these gardens of language in envelopes
and sent them out as entreaties. Each a bloomless
hope. Now this real garden. Before the flowers,
he tilled a bed for greens to eat--and in these short
weeks, we've already harvested the lettuce,
the beets are nearly--and there's larger plans--
he's shopping right now for a plum tree
and in my mind, I can already see the new
green leaves gleam and the small fruit
give like there's always going to be plenty.