Our Hands Dirty as Lunatics’

Until just before the settling

of pink wash darkening 

we unplug nursery vines, flowers

from small plastic planters:

you: the coleus and candy corn petals:

me: the basil and tomatoes:

we dig out rootbound rosemary, thyme

from their winter indoor pots:

bury them deep

in fresh broken soil:

drench the dirt

even though we know

a week of spring warm storms 

starts today.

A moth heavy electrical vibrating 

against the dirt patch ground:

I ask you:

Is something being laid?  

Is dust being prepared?

I squeeze the snapdragons

as though it were childhood

and the smallest motion

of petal mandible

were a thousand words

for loving you

laid out on a blanket:

like seeds or bulbs

that promise heat

and bird calls red

as tulip bleed

and the madness joy

of coming up behind you

dirt on my hands

dirt on yours

and kissing the grit

and shine of your neck:

and every second

watersoak flourishing.