1.
“It’s time to start gardening”
were her first words to me
called across our yards
as we each stooped to retrieve
our morning papers.
We hadn’t yet met,
but I took this as command
and have been sowing seeds
and digging in the dirt
ever since, a constant source
of anticipation and joy.
I’d bake her pies
and she’d fry the okra
I brought from the farmer’s market.
On the fourth of July
we’d watch the fireworks from her deck.
But we were mostly over-the-fence
neighbors, greeting each other
every morning, stopping to chat
about the drought or rain,
the transgressions of the lawn guys,
or the antics of our dogs.
She was a banana every morning
and a glass of wine at 5 p.m.
She taught me never to refrigerate
a tomato and so much more
I can never express.

2.
The cemetery where her body lies
is not as lovely as her yard
once was, although it does afford
a view of distant hills and is filled
with meadowlark song. Her azaleas, her joy
and pride, pink stacked against red,
fully bloomed that last April afternoon
so that she could enjoy them
from the bedroom where she waited
to die. Now those azaleas too have died,
due to an indifferent gardener,
and the redwood fence that she designed
is caving in. A poet once said
“Good fences make good neighbors,”
but my good neighbor is gone.