Yesterday, had I been a millionaire and
able to hire a gardener or two, I —
I still would have knelt in the earth
and brushed back the crunchy leaves to see,
touch, oh! two-inch green shoots of new garlic.
Would have pruned scratchy rose bushes and
sucked blood from my thorn-stabbed thumb;
cut back the lower aspen branches,
plucked up the withered dead tomato and
pepper plants, snapped off hollyhock stalks.
The earth under my fingernails —
curved sliver of the new moon.