Perennials

- after Lynda Lee Bird

During those bitter months we
laid only cut flowers, or plastic
facsimiles, because the ground
was either too fresh or too frozen
for anything else. But since the
seasonal rain has softened our
footing, a proper garden is now an
option. We’ll give her two of every
flower, because we have already
forgotten which ones she favoured.
Within these fences, she’ll surely
be the envy of all her neighbours
who cannot watch their gifts
take root, & curl down towards
them like a rolling April fog.
But then suddenly, with noblest
of intentions, I begin to gouge
the soil with my mint green spade.
In the process, I churn up more
pairs of squirming things than
I am yet prepared to stomach.
I start thinking about pairs of
doves, olive branches, & whether
or not Noah had sleeves deep
enough to rock me to sleep in,
like a hammock. That was about
when I dropped my shovel.
I didn’t trust myself with it any
longer. I was now capable of
exhuming her. I guess I have
always been capable of doing so.
I turn my head just as a pair of
ostriches prance toward me,
& plunge their blunt heads
into my mother’s unfinished
garden. They remove their heads
with a shake, & awkwardly run
to the west, in order to try on
some other gardens. They’re
not used to this soggy, elevated
terrain, but I feel optimistic that
they’ll find themselves a piece
of familiar ground that feels
good around the eyes & brains.