stained fingertips and blackened nails
plucking stems from overripe berries.
You suck the hurt out of your thumb
and scuff the thistle into the dirt
under the heel of your garden boot
and later off with the boots for a swing on the porch
a cup of ice and a bowl of berries
and later still a slice of cheesecake
doused in the juice of all that smashed fruit
and then aperitifs for all your hard work
as we make our way through the house to the stairs
to the bath where coconut breeze soap
from my sister sits fragrant in a dish
and later lathered and bathed and smelling of soap
we move damp down the hall to a room
where the curtains billow out like hand-tatted sails
and the trill of the whip-poor-will calls us to
come, come the day is done.
Inspired by the prompt from Imaginary Garden With Real Toads honoring one of my favorite poets, Jane Kenyon.