My uncle told me turn the soil over
after that we'll lay a sheet over it
everything under it will die, and
we can start again.

I listened to him – he knows gardens
he and my aunt could make an Eden
out of an overgrown, dying hellscape
I know. I saw them.

The spade in my hand jittered on concrete
a hardness in the weed-infested turf
someone else did this, hurt this garden
not him, not me.

Inside my aunt saw out of one eye
maybe saw me, black mass burrowing
while she looked at her last garden in Spring
I dug hard for her.

This was one thing I could do for her
my uncle had other things to do
they gave him a chair, and straps, and pills
he dug with them.

But every garden is a dying thing
the rot and the death is near to the core
dig it out if you can, but know
it will come back again.

January 7, 2025