Pappaw’s Garden

The sun was always warm

But never cruel,

And the dirt welcomed my hands

Like it knew I belonged there—

Elbows deep in squash leaves,

The prickly kind that left

Tiny tattoos of summer

On my skin

Pappaw moved slow,

But sure,

His voice low as he talked

To the writing spiders

Hanging like secrets

Between the bean poles.

They listened, I think,

Spinning their silver cursive

In the hush between rows.

We picked cucumbers slick with dew,

Snapped green beans with a rhythm

Only we knew,

And when the cantaloupe split

Under his pocketknife,

The scent rose like a hymn—

Sweet, sun-heavy,

Dripping down my chin

As we stood barefoot

In the middle of the work

Tomatoes still warm from the vine

Burst in my mouth

Like they’d been waiting

Just for me.

Bumble bees danced around us,

Lazy and golden,

Never minding our harvest.

And when the day was done,

He’d nod toward the muscadines,

Dark as midnight,

Hiding in the leaves.

I’d eat until my fingers

Were stained and sticky,

Face shining with juice

And joy.

That garden was more

Than rows and roots—

It was a language

We spoke without speaking,

A place where time

Slowed down

And love grew

Quietly

Between the vines.