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My mother phones to tell me
it's time for planting; 

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my father has built a bed -
nothing fancy, mind you, 

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wooden planks painted yellow.
That's nice, I reply, 

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dipping my brights as I slow
for a curve. And since it's your flower 

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she goes on, it seems the least
you ought to do is come home 

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and plant it yourself Home, I 
say, marveling. Back, she amends. 

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I brake for a deer, one of the many
who ravage seedlings in our neighborhood - silent  

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marauders by moonlight
crowding the edge of the road 

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as if to declare This was our home 
once and we 'II eat anything we please. 

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All right, I tell her. I'm on my way. 

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I strike out the calendar, pack 
sweaters and music, snacks and a Thermos 

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for the drive home eight hours 
backwards into autumn where 

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my father stands in a baseball cap,
arms crossed, surveying his handiwork. 

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A picture frame set in the dirt,
I think, kissing his cheek 

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as I take the trowel and get down
on my bad knee to dig. Not too wide, 

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he says, but make it deep -four to six inches.
The bulb is hairy, wizened like a baby chick.  

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I place it beak-first into its new 
home, gently spooning the earth back in 

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like the last child at the beach 
who lingers as the day cools,  

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wanting to leave everything as she found it,
patting the sand down, making it right.