We pull up the old iron slabs I had used
as stepping stones for my garden. By we,
I mean I pull them up. My son takes
to raking the shriveled brown cords of melons
and pumpkins and squash. His interest wanes
soon enough and he leaves me with my hands
in the familiar gray dirt. In my lungs, the dust
rises like long-nourished prayers. And I am alone,
though not alone. There are several of me here.
One woman who dreams of kissing in rain. One woman
who plots where new seeds will go. One woman
plants herself in this clay. One woman kneels
in the morning’s gold shrine. And one woman lifts
old iron slabs. She is blossoming one now at a time.