The bare garden in spring always
feels like a stranger’s. Like the last
sentence in a book. Its path circles
ground I have tended each season
of my life. Have I only dreamed
that I know how things grow? Then
the dreams were seeds. Then the seeds
were stars. Once this plot was entirely
rubble and thirst. Now I cultivate a heaven
everyone will water. The last sentence
in one book and the first sentence in
another are two of countless rows.
I write my path walking. All this future
blossoming illuminates the way.
–for Deborah Keenan, at her retirement