The Garden Still Grows

She planted in April.
We buried her in June.
(the garden still grows)

The tomatoes came in heavy
the first week of July,
like they never got the news
that made the whole porch cry.
Her gloves still on the railing,
her sunhat on the hook;
the rows she laid that April
still following her book.

I almost let it wither —
said, what's a harvest for?
Then the squash vine crossed the walkway
and knocked on the kitchen door.

The garden still grows —
her hands are in everything that shows.
Every bloom's a word she planted;
love keeps coming up in rows.

Still grows. (her hands)
Still blooms. (her plans)
love keeps coming up in rows.

I learned to can in August,
her cookbook stained and true;
gave jars to half the county
like she'd tell me to do.
The neighbor kids come picking,
she'd have loved their dirty knees;
and the sunflowers she scattered
turned the fence line to a praise.

I almost let it wither —
said, what's a harvest for?
Then the squash vine crossed the walkway
and knocked on the kitchen door.

The garden still grows —
her hands are in everything that shows.
Every bloom's a word she planted;
love keeps coming up in rows.

Truth is, she knew. That last April, moving slow,
she planted twice the seed she ever had —
perennials, the kind that don't need asking.
She was writing me a letter in the dirt:
"Keep living. I'll keep showing up each spring."

Mm. (each spring)
Mm. (each row)
(a letter in the dirt)

The garden still grows —
her hands are in everything that shows.
Every bloom's a word she planted;
love keeps coming up in rows.

April's coming. The seed drawer's full.
I know what she'd want.

The garden still grows —
The garden still grows —