Portrait of a Gardener

The thin yellow film of the year’s first tulip melts to pulp on your tongue. Spring- pink, you smile softly, and the crickets, in benediction, start washing their little hands. Your mother always said that Middle-C was as close as you could get to God without dying, but she never saw you walking in the late May air. She said to remember all the moments your heart skips a beat and there is a dog on the front porch of my mind— barking.