The Gardener

The Gardener


Unprepared and precious,

I lift them out with two hands.

I find in the dirt of my new garden

decrepit plastic whiffle balls,

cracked open like an eggshell on one side

where nothing has escaped,

empty from inception,

and chunk pieces of cinderblock

foundation. I dig in my own dirt

of my own yard, and lift a metal padlock,

or unearth a round rock

paving stone

or gray orb, egg unbroken by

water and air and fire of the sky

which beat onto the rocks and me,

the dirt of the new beds,

my seedlings,

the dog in the yard,

and the used porch furniture

rescued from the neighbors’ curbs.

All the green and plastic life they wet, and breathe, and heat

measure out in my shovels of dirt.

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