We left the house, barefoot, not worrying
about splinters the porch could give.
The gravel footpath wrapped around
the house and nearly pierced our calloused heals,
encouraging us to pick up speed.

Dew filled grass cushioned the souls
of our feet while rounding the house
to the garden, where we would plant
your favorite summer flowers.

We dipped our hands in the supple soil
and it pushed its way under our fingernails.
We nestled the roots into the divots
we made for them and buried them
seven inches into the Earth.

The sun burnished our backs,
and warmed us while it garnished
the garden. You pulled your hair back
from your shoulders with unclean hands.

When all the flowers were standing
tall, you wiped your dirty palms
on your worn-out jeans and smiled,
telling me,

“the sunflowers
will face the sun.”


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