1998
Underground

It’s April and we’ve planted pastel spheres
of pea seeds. We’ve had the necessary
drizzle and shy sun, and our neighbors’ lilacs -
one stark white of saintly faith, the other passion’s
violet signature - lean across our fences.

It’s three in the morning, muddy, and the night air stirs
exhaust fumes from McLoughlin Boulevard
into the scent of cold, wet dirt. I sit on my heels. I listen,
but I cannot hear the ghostly tentative roots
investigate their home’s dark nourishment.

These are the sweetest days of my life.
Only lend me the grace to wait.