Gardening Poem by nathan martin

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.