Offering Street

Every bush and bulb I'd planted
in our small square plot

I pulled out that morning by the roots.
Walked each, one by one, to a pile

of trash by the curb: the living
wall of evergreens, budding

lavender lining the walk
to our door; the blood-brown

calla lilies, daffodils, irises,
pink peonies, white hyacinths.

Everything I’d buried on Offering Street.
And watered. Everything possible

to predict: all you said that was
that wasn’t. What I didn’t know

and couldn’t name the wet grey clay
released, whoosh, into my grip.

I never wanted to be a gardener.
I wanted to garden.