Planting: A Calendar

     Into each row I lay: melting
snow pea, baby grapes, summer
     squash, eggplant. Ahead, weeks
of dazzling heat; then rain. No
     roosters crow at dawn in this
part of the world where finally 
     we set down if not roots,  
then a household of belongings 
     unloaded from a truck.
There are no fences behind which
     tethered dogs growl when 
I pass; or steps carved into the side
     of a rocky hill. I don't walk
to the corner store at first 
     light, lured by the idea 
of bread in makeshift ovens. Once, 
     I believed there would be time
yet to make our way to those
     places in the world we only 
dreamed about: rivers winding through
     the underground, fireflies strung
like party lights against the ceiling. 
     Trails that lead up and up into 
mountains so high our legs might 
     start to feel unconnected to our 
bodies; trees crowning past the ribs 
     of their green umbrella arms. 
Now these little runners of hope,
     close to the ground: in a few
weeks, small heart-shaped leaves and
     curling tendrils. Memory, that box
of rusted tools I keep: testing  
     how sharp the blade, how deep into 
the soil the weed wrench's jaw will go.