growing

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.