Shed
The tacklebox tampons’
wrappers have faded,
again discrete mysteries
he needn't bother investigate,
but the black bucket
where he mixed mud and lime--
she told the deer
the hand-tilled and hand-sifted
garden soil's fruits were made
for mama bears' burly cubs
not the does gawky
spindle-legged side-dishes in waiting--
still spills unruly string
lights ready to be hung
should one of those cubs
wonder at the way back home.
All the shelves he's put to order
with near atavistic care but one:
dropped gloves, mud caked spades,
and plastic pots surround four seed signs--
long since done marking in careful crayon
roe for karrot, roe for corn,
roe for mama’s beat --
lacquered and glued to panels
square to within a degree,
lauding the triumphal flight of plump bee bodies
still open at the edges
yet fully in possession of themselves
and of their perfectly circular wings.