The garden dirt, frost-stiff, sends
you in shivering. Bracing my jawbone,
dirt shadows your hands as they fall
toward your hips, your neck slouched.
“The tulips,” you sob shaking,“the tulips
sprouted, never grew, dangled.”
I nod slow-hinged as you back me
against the fireplace, empty, sliding
my shoulders across the mantlespace.
Now, tear-streaked: “Peas, they’re peas I planted,
too cold to dig out,” your finger tips raw
(dirt, blood, and my face tumbling in my nods),
“the flowers have turned and only autumn to blame.”
And I nod, and I nod, a metronome, I nod,
gathering all I can think to respond:
So strange you’ve not brought the winter-peas in.
“So strange you’ve not brought the winter-peas in.”