Why do we have to do this,
asks my daughter, hoe in hand,
and I, hoe in hand, reply
that it’s good for the soil
and helps it to breathe.
I think about how my own thoughts
crust over, how quickly
they become impenetrable.
And then hoe of loss. Hoe of hope.
Hoe of disbelief. Hoe of shock.
Again and again,
the world breaks me open,
allows the new to come in.
Again and again, I resist
the change. And then marvel
at how essential it is,
the new ideas so green,
so persistent, tender as
a girl asking why.