Spring Planting

SPRING PLANTING

For Kirk Miller

May 25, 1964 – Aug. 19, 1992

This spring,

the ground softens again.

Wet earth

under fingernails,

the smell of turned soil

and lilacs

somewhere nearby,

not seen.

I kneel

where we scattered wildflowers

once—

cheap seed

from a torn envelope

we shook like salt

into the wind.

The well is still here.

It no longer grants anything.

Only echoes

when I speak.

You used to run

down the block

full-tilt,

your shadow

stretching past you.

I’d wait

until you turned the corner

before I breathed.

Now

the sky darkens,

and I do what you would do—

plant something

without asking

what for.

A HUSH BETWEEN SEASONS