I must have been a saint
in a previous life
basted sweet sweetly
sugar-rimmed burnt to
the pan of heat hot
scalded sticky with
pure, pure love
like I love my
kids – like I love
the fade of sun
to moon; the melt
of snow to spring
he loves
me and I look
to him, at him
through him
and I swear, I
must have been
a saint in a
previous
life.
Beside splintered fence posts
negative space awaits
the planting of the heavy-fruited
tomato green, the leafy romaine, the
bulbous yellow-skinned squash
Cool sun streams through -
early spring molecules dance
to the frosted ground’s tune
Warm, warm, dark friend!
Cuddle the seeds tamped sweetly -
embrace the roots that
will burst against you
as you soften
Rise to the air young babies and
fill that negative space, keep
those fence posts company
and weep freely in the breath
of spring’s full-on promise.
Clump of vine strangling
itself along with
the tree of you
weighing you down
I know it to be true
by the slump of your
neck carrying
all that bluster of
head and brain.
Sometimes you
work up a smile
even still and
I reach out to soften
your calluses
but your
hand
is already waving
farewell.
