Assistance

When sadness settles
in, more intractable

than usual—
when it takes more

pains to make itself
known—

I tell my sisters not to worry.
I will garden the sadness

away. I decide
on a raised bed,

staining the cedar planks
I stack into walls

that form a new
lack. I order

loam and compost
the man with the pickup

calls gorgeous. Do we decide
what fills us?

I can almost see it—
the dirt is deep brown

and clumped and it desires
to be useful. I find moving

it to be so tiring
that I can keep in my head

only the understanding
of the weighted shovel

as I lever
rounded mounds.

I tell my sisters
how I go looking

for uncommon
hot peppers. Three nurseries

in my gardening getup—
Carhartt overalls, frayed

Sox hat—
and at each place,

I kid you not, I’m stopped
by a customer

seeking assistance.
Like the one wanting

to know how he can keep
his onions from bolting

and I’m sheepish and sorry,
having to correct him.

I don’t work here. I don’t know
what I’m doing either.