In The Garden

Curled on arthritic knees,

shoulders wrapped in

her favorite green cardigan,

worn red cultivator

held loose in three fingers

she serenades the tulips,

happy to see them opening up

Harry didn't like the garden,

swore he'll starve because of it

He blustered like a bear-sized baby

begging for beer and beefsteak

as if his hands were broken

Her good hand

grips the spade handle

as she climbs to her feet,

cussing at the bursts of grenade-pain

in her joints

It'll rain, she knows.

The missing fingers itch,

she kicks the shovel

and glances at the spot

under the window where

she buried those two lost soldiers

She consoles the spade,

watching the inner reel

Harry clodding through camellias

dark thunder in his voice

lightning flash as he bowls

her down, hauls her back up

shoving her toward the kitchen

The faithful shovel

in her good hand

guided by the other

she answers cricket-style

(pays to watch with Harry)

full on with the middle of the bat

Last fall.

Winter passed quiet,

Christmas too.

No arguments from Harry

about the turkey

or the tree; no fights

with the kids

Harry never liked the garden,

had no idea how good he could be

She smiled.

The tulips really loved him,

in the garden.

CKK2017