In the garden of grief

She pummels the ground, rakes, hefts
foot on shovel, slices the earth.
Her trowel unburies the root systems
of grass, clover, wild strawberries 

pitching runners. She dredges for taproots,
plucks out invasives, sifts
clumps of clay, culling the rue
wild to reseed itself even

in rock. Into loam she combs centipedes
and snails, braids topsoil with humus,
laces the plots of tilth with seeds,
knowing the split seams will shoot

serrations of leaf, palings of stem,
a cacophony of color reeling, hapless,
into summer’s clutch. She sows thyme,
edges the garden in lemon balm.