Gardening by Accident

The landlord hacked the lilacs down at noon,

the yard is raw and open to the sky.

I tripped across a brick, a little soon

for any kind of grace to pass me by.

I landed where the roots were ripped away,

my palm deep in the wet and heavy black.

The mud is cold and smells of yesterday,

a bit of earth that’s trying to hold back.

It’s jammed beneath my nails in jagged lines,

a fistful of the garden’s quiet meat.

I feel the grit against my skin’s designs,

while standing on my own two shaky feet.