While I heat curried asparagus soup,
my husband and son cover garden beds
with thick gray blankets.
I watch them from the kitchen window,
my son now taller than his dad.
How quickly he bolted, bolts still.
I think of the ways
we try to protect what we grow.
The threat of frost is real.
Like the bean sprout that didn’t make it last night,
despite the fact we covered it.
This morning it was waxy, shriveled, dark.
How quickly it died.
But because my husband made row covers,
everything else survived.
I would like to make a row cover
for my son, for the world—something
to protect against what is harshest, most cold.
Instead, I mix lemon juice, yogurt
and chives that we’ll swirl into the soup.
I can fortify him on the inside.
My husband tacks down the cloths
with hammer and nails—I think
of all that will be saved tonight.
We are charged to take care
of each other, the world. Impossible charge.
My son catches my eye and smiles.