Marla wears a sunhat and too-big gardening gloves.
She starts by weeding the patio
but can’t bend for long,
goes inside for water.
I cover myself over in her old nightie and get busy
picking pieces of broken glass from the grass,
stones from dead flower beds.
I can’t see much progress
even after a couple of hours
but Marla is smiling.
It’s lovely this garden, isn’t it? It’s lovely.
I’m not sure she can remember what it was before
but she seems to know what it is now
and is happy.
Which is the main thing.