I have never dug these fingers down the muck never quested a root with you beneath the topsoil I prefer the reap to your exuberant sow the split-sweet gold tomato the harvest of strawberry in your old lover’s bowl the apples you tumble onto this woodblock I am patient enough for shortcrust I fold butter in place of my back you know bulbs & frozen ground you brave seedlings after frost broadcast a future from your open palm the growth of sunflowers above me I live my life too frightened to foresee you plant purples for the last living bees I would rather chiffonade your leaves I would rather turn your chard into supper but hand me that hose beneath the eaves I’ll make the rough sage shimmy as I graze it make lavender spice the air as I praise it now look at that velvet of thyme I’ll serve it its drink until the dirt turns black
