In The Garden
My wild grief didn’t know where to start or end.
Sometimes, I dig my hands
through the earth just to get
my fingers dirty.
Under my nails,
a bed of life.
Why use a shovel
when I have these hands?
Brown pigment to meet brown pigment.
I know the sprinkle
of seeds, not too shallow,
not too deep, twice
the size of seed.
I plant the irises, the purple promises.
Soon, there will be a sea of purple to return to.
I follow the bees, seek
their honey, the taste of home
sticky memory
speckled with a
collection of dandelions,
tiny suns,
sustenance despite.
Dandelions and all their names,
honey with all it’s amber sweetness
A reminder, a promise.
My only sense
of direction, my body,
and where my hands
touched the Earth,
where my hands touched yours.
