There is a carpenter in me
with an impressive tool belt.
She thinks she can fix everything.
Every time there’s a leak in the ducts,
she blames that darn condensation,
and whips out her metallic tape.
And when there’s a heart break,
she mumbles something about not meeting code,
then takes note of all the cracks,
all the places where it’s falling apart,
and gets to work: cleans up and preps
new concrete to hold things together.
I know she’s doing what she knows best,
I know she has good intentions.
But today, while she runs off to seek
just the right hammer, just the right nails,
I take those leaky ducts and that broken heart
into the garden and dig potatoes.
The soil is cool and slips soft
though my fingers as I sift for yellow fingerlings
and red-skinned Desirees.
There is a gardener in me who doesn’t try
to fix anything. She says in a quiet southern drawl,
Sweet thing, bring all that brokenness here
and let it walk amongst the sunflowers.
Let it weed the carrots and pick
some calendula bouquets. And nothing
gets fixed, but something shifts as I sit
beside unruly mint, its green spears rampant,
its scent so cooling, so sweet.
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