1 Forget what is past, they say,
but why should I forget
how it felt to have a baby cheek pressed up against mine
and barefoot walking through the green yard, pointing and naming,
signs of spring, signs of life,
when everything was new and young and delightful?
2 My hands remember.
As a child I had my own patch of garden in the back yard
These hands planted dusty millers, marigolds and petunias
Was there blooming or neglect;
did it get mowed over?
If there was much blooming, my mom must have helped
while I was busy climbing trees
or drinking from the hot, plastic hose.
3 My hands, with over 40 years of memory now,
still love the feel of freeing flowers from crunchy plastic containers
making room for cramped roots to expand
settling them home.
4 Amidst the vibrant green and bright colors,
the dusty miller spreads its delicate branches
receiving its water in the cool of the morning
like a snowflake that doesn’t melt,
reaching quietly upward in gray-white aliveness.
5 I walk barefoot through the dew
to cut lettuce from my garden
The skies open up and I run to the porch laughing, soaked
I don’t melt.
I wipe my face with a gritty towel that feels like decades of summers.
