Before the rooftops lose their blue
I find him kneeling by the wall
My father brushes off his sleeves
Among the herbs I can’t recall
The patch that used to hold my bike
Is crowded now with stems and clay
He checks the underside of leaves
I watch his thumb turn one my way
He sets his fingers underneath
A pot too heavy just to slide
I crouch across the dampened earth
And fit my hands along its sides
We rise together, cross the stones
His shoulders level with my own
Then ease the weight onto the ground
Beside the steps I’ve always known
With these hands
I take the weight with him
Clay against our palms
Soil beneath the rim
All those years of looking up
Now we’re bending toward the ground
Following his measured movements
Till we set the planter down
He lifts a leaf; beneath its stem
A bud is folded tight and green
I lean to see what held his gaze
Through all the weeks I haven’t seen
His hand stays near it for a while
Then turns the pot toward the east
I used to hurry through this yard
Today I notice every leaf
With these hands
I take the weight with him
Clay against our palms
Soil beneath the rim
All those years of looking up
Now we’re bending toward the ground
Following his measured movements
Till we set the planter down
Across the table yesterday
We finished eating, cleared our plates
Out here, his fingers guide the spout
And mine adjust the water’s weight
The scent of wet earth rises up
He lifts his palm; I stop the flow
There’s more to him than how he’s been
There’s what he’s waiting for to grow
With these hands
I tilt the watering can
Watch the dry earth darken
Along the edge, then back again
He takes the handle when I’m done
I wind the hose beside the wall
The bud still keeps its color hidden
I want to see its petals fall open
Two sets of footprints on the stones
Drying as the sun comes through
Next time I’m home, before unpacking
I’ll step outside to see what grew
