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When her back began alarmingly

to creak, and all the earth receded far

below, she made herself a bench, a slat



of fir between two other slats of fir.

Her knees derided her presumption, so

she tacked a bit of carpet on, to ease



the landings when she launched them out and down,

hoping, as she did so, nothing was

missing: not the ho-mi, nor the seeds



or seedlings in their flat, or soil she'd stolen

from the neighbor's molehills, baked and sifted,

nor the hose-end with its chilly hand



of brass. Any unpresent thing could send her

wandering from barn to potting shed

to kitchen counter, swearing at herself,



ending in her having yet another

cup of something, using up the morning's

bag of tea -- again. Gardening



is knowing what to do, and when, they say,

leaving out that bit about old brains

forgetting what to do about forgetting.