On Marriage and Summer Squash

In the heat of the day,

our son’s call is an echo from his play set

in the far yard.

***

You, bent next to a plot of soil,

pull the last weed,

then pat dirt over

seed upon seed.

***

This is your gift, my love.

To coax the still and numb

to life,

to hold us in hand,

to fold us,

warm, safe

in the deep dark,

we sip rain

and grow,

sure, for we know

by dint of you,

***

we’ll see the sun.

***

Submitted for the Short and Sweet Challenge