Failure to keep both gloves dry.

It’s been raining. All day. Yesterday. Days.

No one is at the gardens. In them.

I spray the lock.

I spray the handle.

I wonder: where will it wash to?

All the Lysol. All the alcohol.

The bleach and anti-

“Into the streams,” comes the answer.

From where? From whom?

From here.

A crown of onions, for which I was sent, unearthed.

A cascade of sky water rivulets with.each.thumb.press.

Adding fingers in their chill to the list of aches I feel from the world.

As I return home to the warmth awaiting, kindled long ago, preciously tended with moments stolen and savored as we exhale on.

Not mine.

I’ve been working at a friend’s. She wants a backyard redo. With veggies.

Graph paper and planning. Chats and sketches. Texts back and forth and back and forth. It was time. The first 4 cubic yards of compost delivered.

Thankful, these weeks, for outdoor distanced meditative work. Shoveling. Wheeling barrows of soil food. Over and over.

It’s time to order five more. And plants. Then mulch.

Is the landscape yard still open? Should they be?

The nursery is still open. I can’t gather my self to go.

We may end up, with the best laid plans. With life laid on thick. And come up short on starts.

They came anyway.

She painted it metallic pinks and purples. Covered it in foam sticker butterflies and hearts. We hung it on the fence and waited.

The rains came and the heat, too, and the paint started to peel. A sticker and then two and twenty washed away.

A few butterflies remain and today, she squealed a whispered jump for joy in my ear.

“They found it! Look, mama!”

Howdy, new neighbor. Make yourself at home.