on his knees

I think of my father
on his
knees
in the black soil
poured, in
the weeds,
in the garden snug
between
the patio and the common
ground.
a stump
from a tree cut
down
last winter.
I see him now, at ninety
his hands
in the tomatoes
the peppers,
feeling his way
with murky eyes, watered
like the salty
seas he
drifted upon when
he was muscled
and tanned.
blue eyed and blonde.
the world ahead of him
bright with
hope.