Pop and I many years after our shared 'plantin' season
You may read the companion memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/plantin_season_13579
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ First, the shovel bites dirt~ a clean incision where grass pretended the world was always this green. Dad’s hands, knuckled like roots, twist the spade deeper. He doesn’t speak, but I know this is the language of a man who trusts the ground. We kneel, pressing seeds into dark, damp pockets~ each one a buried secret waiting to unravel. His fingers, thick as carrots, brush mine by accident. The sun stretches our shadows long across the turned soil, two bent figures stitching the earth back together, one row at a time. By dusk, we are dirty in ways that won’t wash off. The garden doesn’t thank us yet, but the love and gratitude between Dad and me is soft and growing.
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