As though to touch each seed with thumb and finger
will certify the touch of life shall take
(Whose touch? Whose life? I murmur as I work),
I plant the marigolds one-eighth inch deep

and inches, six, apart – the measure
(I think while I am squatting on my hams)
of my desire at its most far-reaching.
In my dreams, I laugh aloud, to soil.

I have five rows here, have spent eight packs
of seed that never seems like sane seed should
– elongated, rat-tail gray, but snow-pale
at one end, I wonder why. But if

they sprout and root and come to show
their meaning will not matter. I fear frost
– this valley sucks down coolness, like a desert.
These mountains hold and hug it; the westward

plateau sweeps the Arctic down and dirty.
But any seed that’s worth its salt, that’s sure,
can bear a bit of infidelity:
one day old plants will die, but not before

autumnal frost – their hearts cannot sweat cold
when they are sown, or when they free themslves,
or when I cut them for the vase or bottle,
say, She who spurns me loves me with this scent.

This April night there is the chance for death
– the snap of chill, the scattered ire of ice
– to stop them where they stand, although they lean.
And when I rise and cultivate alone,

go in the house, wash my hands, and weep,
what I most marvel for are my lost loves
who never shook my dirt aside for sun
– women who hoed me well within their ground,

embracing me, my need, but cautioning
an endless row and swift diminishing.