Rain waters my garden
I watered last evening:
cucumbers, tomatoes, garlic
my wife will put up,
the rest from a farm north of here
where I made a goat-gate and fixed a trough
the horses knocked down.
We make a life, try to make it
last. Make a book, a podcast.
Paint Paris with streetlights at night
in slow rain the one time
we were there.
We sculpt the heart, shape
aortas of marble muscle,
chambers where the blood flows.
Put love into it, hate, loss —
make hard work visible, leave it
out in the rain under trees
and rot, worn stone,
hands of water and mud.
Oh child of my child,
tell me I can make it better.
You are me
when I am gone.