Gardening

your face polaroid happy glowing not half so distant. walking over to grab the shovel and rain filled bucket near the gravel driveway. i watch your hands digging quickly pouring seeds out as you go. we bury them together, in rows just like the way my mother used to. infant tie. .... tile back to the time we heard all those simple things. when we played in the dirt and grew simple things like arms and legs, eventually even a mouth. but first came the eyes yours seem brighter than usual today. now we rush to bury the rhubarb and the turnup's next to the south side of the house where you planted the carrots the year before. it is foggy outside and the ground is cold. your hands are muddy with the dark soil and you are talking about how you used to go to this abandoned armory along a sandy grass filled jetty near the tip of the puget sound. you said it was a safe place for you and that it was always foggy just like this morning. you look up at me with a look that makes me feel very still and introspective. i wonder am i that armory for you now? can i be that body of metal and cement not cold but alive. can i regrow simple things, simple arms and legs that care for you. is it to late to bury a little hope at this time of year? rebar ribs crack to the touch. i take a deep breath in and look over at the back yard.