For Hildegard

Her twelfth season tending
to my garden, she turns the soil
in flowerbeds, cuts back ornamentals
that would tangle in the trees, pulls
weeds, feeds seedlings she brings
with roots wrapped in wet paper towels.

This year she moves slower, as I do,
a mirror of my aging inside while
she works outside without complaint.
Sometimes, I can feel the ripples
of her anxiety blow across the mossy
ground. Her worries pop up like

Amanita after rain. I can’t soothe her
since she won’t say much, refuses talk
of reason, evidence. Terror comes easily,
I want to say. I grow old too. She still
promises, In fifteen years, this will
mature into a beautiful landscape.

We had our lovers before AIDS
and Herpes. We had the pill. Distance
from drones and bombs has helped
our pretense of safety: vegetables
from the garden. Tofu, beans and rice.
Nothing can go wrong.