I’m just a man in a garden,
blue jeans, green sweater,
standing in freshly turned over soil,
rake in hand.
The lilac bush is sprouting.
The lawn has learned
to love the sun again.
The bag of fertilizer
rests against the fence.
Seeds, like talent show contestants,
drop into tiny ditches,
prepare their summer act.
This is what you married,
not some guy in tights and cape,
who can lift you like a leaf,
carry you up into the tree tops.
But your world must embrace
the likes of me
if anything’s to grow.
