Nothing stays the same: the garden we started
when Joe died with leftover logs to hold the dirt,
creek silt, horse manure and our grief

bearing fruit, that fed us, saving trips to town—
and Margaret’s corner we added, planted
to garlic and squash again. Come evenings,

since the many glasses tipped to their spirits
sprinkled upon the cotyledons rising, reaching
to greet warm summer darkness, the weeds

and snails have made a home. We are slower
now, months behind the late spring rains—
your tendonitis, hole in my hand—clearing

a bed at a time, making furrows, planting
dreams. Yet, this must be heaven-made
when there is no need to keep track of time.

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