Wednesday, April 5, 2017

his last garden

his hands curled
in the dirt, means spring.
he pounds
a stake
to hold up the fence
to keep
the rabbits out.
it's a small square
of ground,
just enough room
around the air
conditioner to grow
and tomatoes.
most of which he'll
never eat, or barely see.
it's not about that.
it's something
it's the seed, the rain,
the green
growing of something
new. something
he's always done
since a boy in Halifax.

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