Most days he mows
the immaculate lawn of his front yard,
sweeps the carport
and trims the hedges back to near buzz-cut.
Today he sank
to his knees, arthritic bones aching for
soft patch of earth
or lush grass on which to rest his grey head.
In the spring, buds
burst like silent fireworks near the road,
all his doing,
and the birds alight to watch him plant more.
I have watched for
a near lifetime his yard across the way
morph into Eden –
one handmade with weak limbs – and I know now
the cost of love
for things that cannot love you back. He is old,
with a question
mark for a spine. He sweats and bleeds for his home.
He has no job
but to nourish the Carolina clay,
into yielding
beauty that cannot love a single soul.
I was heading
out of town for a long time. I didn’t know
if he’d be there
once I got back. But, my intuition
whispered, yes. He
has no home but the earth. Even after
his silent death
he will still be watering the flowers
and the blossoms will not love him more,
but never less.
