The Gardener Poem by Danielle Nguyen

I tell you, “There are weeds in your hair, ”
and you squint up, roughened at the knees,
dirt between the frays of your jeans
and on the angle of your jaw.

The scene must have been this:
You, folded humbly,
so as not to offend the ivy buds,
placed your spade on the grass
without looking,
lashes lowered,
and your cigarette dangling at
a most recklessly balanced angle,
sending up smoke to wind around
the sunbeams peering over your shoulders.

Your hands are, of course, ungloved
and I can sense the echo of your voice
mouthing your first explanation
of how the dirt always makes
the tobacco sweeter.

I reach down
and gently extract a wayward stem,
holding it before you, aware
that my fingertips grazed your unkempt hair
a little deeper than they needed to.

And you tell me,
“I hope you like peonies.”
“I picked them so I can smell you when you’re gone.”

You blink slowly,
and you say,
“I never had a garden
before you.”