The mesh of it

The rain has turned the garden bed to silt.

I pull the nylon from the dirt and guilt

myself for leaving it to rot and fray,

tangled in the weeds of yesterday.

The knots are swollen, gray with garden mold.

I remember how the lines would take a hold

of my bare calves, the diamond-shaped descent

of skin pressed hard against the rope’s intent.

That waffle-pattern stayed an hour or more.

I leave the bundle on the porch floor.