I remember days when you would don your garden pants,
the periwinkle ones with sherbet-splattered blooms
of pink and orange dahlias.
They came to a halt just above your ankles,
skimming the tongues and velcro latches of your shoes--
size nine narrow.
And you would count for me as we held the spray over each plant,
four hands on the hose: yours wrinkled with tall veins,
mine monkey-bar calloused.
We waded through fern forests, pausing to make knee-shaped
divots in the mulch, while the pants dampened
with dew from morning grass.
Seasons later, your garden was traded for a vase
of carnations on a hospital nightstand,
and your sun for fluorescence.
And I returned to trace our route through the yard, alone,
counting as I sprayed the blossoms, wearing for you
your garden pants.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
I remember days when you would don your garden pants,
the periwinkle ones with sherbet-splattered blooms
of pink and orange dahlias.
They came to a halt just above your ankles,
skimming the tongues and velcro latches of your shoes--
size nine narrow.
And you would count for me as we held the spray over each plant,
four hands on the hose: yours wrinkled with tall veins,
mine monkey-bar calloused.
We waded through fern forests, pausing to make knee-shaped
divots in the mulch, while the pants dampened
with dew from morning grass.
Seasons later, your garden was traded for a vase
of carnations on a hospital nightstand,
and your sun for fluorescence.
And I returned to trace our route through the yard, alone,
counting as I sprayed the blossoms, wearing for you
your garden pants.
