My Father's Garden
You saw tomato plants through the snow, planned your garden
in February, moved the roto-tiller out into the frostbitten yard.
I was looking for evidence of spring in the frost lines,
shaking the frozen hose and wishing for more light.
Barrel-chested and hungry you
marked off rows and laughed
at my crooked lines. Now I watch
the nights shrink and think maybe
if I had learned a little more I could grow your body
by August, have you back for a summer storm.
On the porch your empty rocking chair moves.
This year I will take it into the yard and plant it by May.