My mother phones to tell me it's time for planting;
my father has built a bed - nothing fancy, mind you,
wooden planks painted yellow. That's nice, I reply,
dipping my brights as I slow for a curve. And since it's your flower
she goes on, it seems the least you ought to do is come home
and plant it yourself Home, I say, marveling. Back, she amends.
I brake for a deer, one of the many who ravage seedlings in our neighborhood - silent
marauders by moonlight crowding the edge of the road
as if to declare This was our home once and we 'II eat anything we please.
All right, I tell her. I'm on my way.
I strike out the calendar, pack sweaters and music, snacks and a Thermos
for the drive home eight hours backwards into autumn where
my father stands in a baseball cap, arms crossed, surveying his handiwork.
A picture frame set in the dirt, I think, kissing his cheek
as I take the trowel and get down on my bad knee to dig. Not too wide,
he says, but make it deep -four to six inches. The bulb is hairy, wizened like a baby chick.
I place it beak-first into its new home, gently spooning the earth back in
like the last child at the beach who lingers as the day cools,
wanting to leave everything as she found it, patting the sand down, making it right.