The stone wall is thick with weeds,
long and light —
seeped in May sun and
June rain.
I show you how to
pull from the root,
and we work together
uncovering rock after rock,
a lone red tulip
shrouded in remnants,
wild pink roses and
patches of lavender,
fragrant and gray,
gnarled roots.
There are so many moments
to hang on to:
how your long curls fall down
your back, shroud
your tiny shoulders;
The way you repeat
the word, columbine;
chew soft leaves of mint,
while your body moves
life from earth.
How you ground together a
pile of fairy dust:
purple sidewalk chalk,
dandelion fluff,
moist soil and
bits of sage and I remember
the way I haphazardly
planted the garden
so long before I ever
conceived of you,
your tremendous questions,
I wonder why, how come
the chives have flowers
even though, they are something
for you to eat…
singing yourself through
the evening.
The way you took your time,
sultry and gentle,
to find your way into the light.
On a long July day we walked
in heat, circled the loop of park,
soaked in a cool, creek pool.
I pushed the Jacuzzi jets
on and off
on and off
chaos of bubbles,
cadence and swell,
surrendered
released
cadence and swell,
surrendered
slow, grounded sway of hips,
bear down, seize
I would have stayed in the
water forever
with you
in that wet between land
like the pulse
of plates,
the decades they wait
to finally come together.
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