at work in the gardens

beneath your linen wraps

your hands are soft and damp 
filled with lavender lotions 
salves made of summer syrups

and oils 
from the wooden banisters
smelling of 
chamomile soaps

i watch you work 
warming, nestled
from the clear lit windows
of grand hillside homes

your hands tear
in the hard garden soils
open to the minerals
blooming
with premature tomato breath
 
the unforgiving sun breaks
upon your smooth shoulders
split with the seams 
tucked under my lungs

in the light and heat
i watch your bones shift 
the spots
smoothing and stretching
to match humble hands
at work in the garden

i approach with the basket
of salves 
close to my chest

the tightness in my throat
betraying my voice
a begging blase 
to hide what needs tending

and your warm smile startles me
to drop the healing hearts at the base
of the willow

my face must have shown you something very unkind
i promise you what you found in me that morning

it was just my own empty garden