Song for My Mother

I’m just planning my garden—
my mother’s last words.
I beg your pardon,

you, shrinking behind fences of wrought iron,
singing to the birds:
I’m just planning my garden

and planning to leave my post as warden—
rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds.
I beg your pardon,

I can’t garden without a buzz on—
not sure if I’m tending from or towards
the sun, as I plant my garden.

But your garden is in my backyard now,
Mother, though the soil is hard
to dig. I beg your pardon—

you bought the last carton of nails in your coffin,
but the trail leads not just backwards but ahead.
We're just planning our garden.
I beg your pardon.