Digging His Garden

digging his garden she sees
him planting bulbs, one by one,
in the dark furrows he dug
Tuesday last, after coming from
work and changing his clothes,
his back curved over the earth,
as she washes dishes, one
by one

each of his movements a
sign of faith
that the roots will
feed and the sun shine still
over his handiwork

whispering up to him, trumpeting
out sounds like the pale
honeysuckle emits their warm fug
of scent

she lost him between breakfast and lunch,
it was that simple, their parting, like
the Red Sea, away from each
other, but still she speaks...with each
seed he plants he hears her consonants
and vowels mixed perfectly, as heavy
cream through coffee

and still she does not understand, as
her fingernails grasp at the flagstones
placed with such care
(he has decided, this year, on a
border of red mixed with white)

paltry words an offering poor enough,
but still, all she had