something is growing in the garden — a poem

I’ll plant a garden in the yard, then /They’re gluing in roses on a flatbed

You should see it / I mean thousands
phoebe bridgers, garden song

there are no hands to tend to

the garden, plants growing skyward, roots heavy in the

soil, weeds expanding, claiming the expanse

spreading uncontrollably, quietly, untended to

here, the tomatoes grow in candle holders, the

soil sticks under my fingers and collects. the tedium of

sowing, pulling weeds on sleepy saturdays is a

distant memory, but one that clings like

sunlight to the leaves, watered with small tears welling, pooling and

collecting at the bottom.

I remember when they took the tree down, too

many rotten roots and broken branches. in the

soil and mulch years later came new life,

leaves growing pointed toward the ground, the

cycle continued.

what grows in the holes that we sow ourselves? who

waters, who tends, who keeps their weeds from spreading,

consuming. how deep the roots, now connected, how

do trees fall together when kept apart