from the rolled down
window of his F-350.
Goddess of what grows and changes.
Of sitting and waiting. She listens to
her grandfather while he resurrects
a sixty-year old International Backhoe.
He tells her how
tough the engines are,
how time has worn
out the hoses.
It coughs its black cough
and spews hydraulic fluid
all over the ground.
She finds God Boy trimming the trees along the fence.
The limbs are bleeding.
In the garden she writes a story
about a woman who listens to her
father’s father creating life.
There’s dirt smeared on the page.
Her grandfather doesn’t do Facebook
or the Tik Tok or the Instagram.
How many comments
do you get when you post
a garden to the internet?
God Boy knows what he will have to do, but doesn’t know
if he’ll have the strength.
How do you watch
your only begotten
herself for the
fickleness of followers?