It's best to mow the grass mid-morning
after early dew has settled into place
before the sun reaches its scorching height.
On planting day
we do not heed this advice.
Grass is leveled blade by blade nonetheless.
Since red clay lacks the loam to sustain roots,
we hack at difficult earth,
make room for soil that will allow things a chance,
plunge waxy-leaved azaleas at the base of a cherry tree
(its blooms passed already)
Black-eyed susans find homes along the walkway
and hostas are transplanted into gaping voids.
There is hope in this planting
but also vanity.
Neighbors' gardens spill forth with orange daylilies,
gerberas, and gardenia blooms.
Ours must comply.
We plant, small flower,
not because we love you
but because our burdens are made fruitful
by your blooms.
Because the blood we have given to mosquitoes,
because the moon-shaped puckers now forming on our skin
are a prelude to your fate.
Hummingbirds and mud daubes will seek food
in your chasm-throated buds
should you bend to our will
and flourish.
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