You work tirelessly

Focused intently

On water and rubber, on wood.

The angles of the sun are streaming into the greenhouse

Seemingly from all directions.

Your pants are torn at the knee

In a defiant sort of way,

Brown boots painted with brown earth,

And the beginnings of crow’s feet

Around your hopeful eyes.

.

While Mrs. Lewis, my mother and I

Pick green heirloom tomatoes in the shade,

Then pull each full and wild plant

Up from this fertile ground.

And she tells us weathered stories

So softly we have to lean in and strain our ears,

As a car stereo, a siren, and a scream

Compete, with futile force, for our attention.