How did he do it? Grow so much
in such a small urban space?
Hedges on every side to keep out
the riffraff weeds. A wooden swing
hung from an iron bar, positioned
between the coal and toolshed walls.
Sweet Pea grew in one corner,
a pink Albertine rose in the other,
scenting the air as you pumped
your legs back and forth to see
over the corrugated roof
where blackbirds and thrushes
skittered in for crumbs.
Strawberries poked out
from the holes in a barrel,
rainbow rows of dahlias rose
next to corpulent chrysanthemums
and purple-sprouting broccoli.
A trellis of tart loganberries
for our mother’s jam,
a patch of rhubarb
for her crumbletop pies.
It seemed as if he could grow anything
with his big awkward-looking hands.
Almost like a garden saint.
Almost like Aaron whose staff
sprang into bloom. Almost enough
to make me believe in God
although now I only believe
that my father had a gift
and a generosity of heart
and that was miracle enough.
