She's out again at the lawn's edge
in her shorts, hose with the special
plant food attachment, gardening
gloves soaked, water having run down
the soft white curves of her forearm.
In the grass by her feet, a pile
of tangled roots and damaged stems.
She has planted the mums beside
her favorite hydrangea
in these still-warm days of autumn.
Almost kneeling, she takes a bloom
into her palm, inches closer,
her lips touching the pink blossom
the way I would sometimes kiss her
bare shoulder. Watching from the porch,
I see her calves tense as she steps
back like a satisfied artist.
I would love to call out to her,
or gently approach as she works.
But she squeezes the nozzle then,
and I am sent away wishing
I deserved the snugness of that touch.   

This poem first appeared in Chiron Review No. 107 (Spring 2017)
and then in the collection House Bird (Terrapin, 2022).
Used here with permission.