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Mother MAG
August 13, 2010
Sweat drips down my back,
black shirt sticking to my skin.
My hair – long then – glued
to the fabric with the salt,
my palms bleed fluid onto
the handle of her shovel.
Lift the dirt. Drop it. Repeat.
I drop the garden tool,
and push the wheel barrel
down the hill in my backyard.
Push it up. Repeat.
One week and two days later,
small pebbles, a pond and
snapdragons lay where the
dirt once did. My mother stands
triumphant near the crab
apple tree. Smiling, she thanks me.
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