The Garden

This morning I awake
once again fearful
of what the day will bring
when it begins
with so many tears.

I try to find
something to soothe,
open the curtains
to let in the light,
open the windows,
hoping a breeze
will freshen my thoughts.
I pause,
wiping tears
from swollen eyes.

I make my way outdoors
to the garden,
check on the vegetables,
see what the night brought—
new sunflowers atop their gawky stalks,
baby pumpkins clinging to their hairy umbilicals.

Suddenly,
the memory of you, my girls,
waking fresh
each summer morning,
the garden fairies calling to you
while I poached your eggs.

You bound into the kitchen,
pockets full of cherry tomatoes,
vine scents sticky on your morning skin,
arms bulging with zucchini that grew overnight,
a chard leaf behind your ears,
half-eaten pepper dripping red down your chin.

You dwell with me in each moment,
each new blossom,
each bug I spot among silken tendrils,
every ripe fruit carefully plucked,
each memory that feeds and nurtures me.