Through the tangled vines I heard her say
"It's always dusk somewhere."
I could only imagine her eyes,
glassed over and tilted up like a teacup
balanced lightly on the edge of a saucer.
Day after day I have watched her in the garden,
pruning shrubs and planting seeds,
bent in the shade of her wide-brimmed hat.
I have seen the way her gnarled fingers caress
the small, firm globes of ripening grapes;
delicate as if they were roses
about to drop their petals.
She shuffles onto the porch at dawn,
sits quietly with her steaming mug.
It is neither verve nor vigor that drives her there,
but the desire to live through each fair blossom
in its spring, sift through the perennial seasons
in the rich topsoil and quivering branches.
The feathery tops of new carrots thrill
to her touch, the tomatoes blush on their stems.
It's as if they say
"yes, my dear,
it's always dusk somewhere,
just like somewhere,
it's always morning."