(for Clifford)

I imagine you’ve been keeping an eye
on things from your spot in the mystery

twenty-five years after your departure,
watching our front yard transform from

a rectangular swath of lawn (to be generous)
known for its impressive annual crop

of dandelions (which we loved) to the mostly
lava-rock-too-freepin’-hot-in-summer-what-

was-I-thinking? landscape (to be generous)—
neither of which I loved, to be honest.

But this latest incarnation, an aspiring cottage
garden, done with the thoughtful advice

and hands of experts, has me on a padded
kneeler under cloudy skies on April Fool’s Day,

tucking 21 baby plants into nicely amended
soil. The elegant, long-limbed Japanese maple

bows over me, and the ginkgo (its top
inadvertently snapped off some years ago)

is now taller than I am, its new green fans catching
tiny pearls of rain. Though I’m feeling gluteus

maximus muscles I typically don’t after all
the kneeling, I am prayerful in the plantin’

as I bless the little ones with the words
my Master Gardener friend said to those

she planted yesterday: “Welcome home.”
And now I whisper it to you, husband,

you who thankfully has never left.