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.
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