Garden
by Mary Audrey Kneipp

In springtime I’m reminded of
the garden that we kept together,
how we weeded, how we planted
appropriate to each season,
how we’d dig our fingers
spadeless into cool damp earth.

We never fussed with gloves
until one day we did, and then
the gloves came off and then we
suffered for it. I remember
stings and thorns, and not
from ants or rose stems.

My eyes are watering, recalling
how your tears poured down
and how, somehow, they washed
and nourished our relationship
as showers do in April,
and we laughed together and the sun
at just that moment
splashed on grass and leaves,
spilling its nectar on your upturned face.



 

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