My grandmother passed her green thumb on
To my mother, but I fumbled the catch; there’s
A plastic shrub on my nightstand but that’s really the extent of it.
I suppose I was too busy watching them, the way
My grandmother waded through the shallows like a lakebird to
Scoop up algae with her great big net. Or how
My mother would pluck along the edges of the gardenbed.
Digging out weeds, trading forehead sweat for mud
With one swipe of her gentle glove.
I never understood it. How to tell weeds from flowers,
How to pry a plant loose by the roots, tug it up from the dirt.
I’d photosynthesize within the window
And watch as they made up our lives–
Stamped out weeds, ferried mulch
To the front beds. They worked their tired arms
Along the siding of the house, scrubbing off
The shedskins of mayflies who with their dying juices
Had formed a gray coat around the paneling.
And later, ripened by the sun,
They’d come back to water everything inside the protected house
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