Eliana in the backyard

The stone wall is thick with weeds,
long and light
seeped in May sun and
June rain.

I show you how to
pull from the root
and we work together
uncovering rock after rock,
a lone red tulip
shrouded in remnants
wild pink roses and
patches of lavender
their fragrant excess
and gray, gnarled roots.

There are so many moments
to hang on to:
how your long curls fall down
your back.  The way you repeat
the word, columbine,
ask for sticks of chive,
chew soft leaves of mint,
while your body hauls
life from earth.

You ground together a
pile of fairy dust:
purple sidewalk chalk
dandelion fluff
moist soil and
bits of sage and I remember
the way I haphazardly
placed it all in the earth
so long before I ever
thought of you.
Your tremendous questions,
singing yourself through
the evening.

The way you took your time,
sultry and gentle,
to find your way into the light.
On a long July day we walked
in heat, circled the loop of park,
soaked in a cool, creek pool,
hours and hours of music and
slow, grounded sway of hips,
I push the jacuzzi jets
on and off
on and off
chaos of bubbles,
cadence and swell,
bear down, seize

like the pulse
of plates,
the decades they wait
to finally come together.