The Gentleman Pulls a Weed from the Lady’s Garden

always the small

unintended gestures

ripple up

to misalign

a favorable

constellation

they met

for the first time

at a local nursery

buying plants

she had been

planting shaping

cultivating

her gardens alone

and unattended

for decades

on ancestral acres

on this day

wheeling pots

of geraniums

in a palette of blues

back to her truck

he had recently moved

back from another country

its lingering accent

still rolling about his tongue

carrying a flat of lemon thyme

to his car parked

randomly next to hers

as she loaded the open bed

they talked plants

in the small lot

for more than an hour

testing each other’s fitness

as gardeners plumbing

each other’s understanding

of roots and stems and leaves

measuring the depth of

their tender love

for what grows underneath

uttering syllables of the language

mastered from their private

conversations with trees

both radiating a vision carried

in their separate hearts

that flowed enthusiastically

to the tips of their fingers

to the fire in their eyes

satisfied she smiled

inviting him

her gaze unyielding

to come back

for an afternoon walk

through her gardens

if he had the time 

delighted to accept

for now he knew

he had nothing

that mattered

left to do

they exchanged names

then he followed her

along the old farm road

curving steadily toward her home

awed by all he saw

the words came easily

as they walked

the conversation

of two gardeners

practiced and rehearsed

in the soothing comfort

of all the many seasons

from the toil

of amending soil

marveling

and laughing at

textures and

transitions

curves and contours

complementary colors

narrow lawns

blooming trees overarching

winding paths

noting specimens unknown

to most and varieties of ancient plants

with uncommon names

not easily found in the trade

they turned

as she imagined

they always would

at the top of the hill

to the vista below

where a pond in the distance

sparkled with

the late afternoon sun

their hands lightly touched

he startled reflexively

bent to his right

pulled a weed lost

among a row of staggered roses

paused not knowing what to do

with what he’d pulled

held it wilting

in his hand

as they walked

slowly toward

the water

a certain intimacy gone 

a certain awkwardness

taking its place

unaware until

then of the car keys

wedged in his pocket

bulging against the fabric

of his trousers

scraping against his leg

as they often did

when he knew

it was almost

time to go