It called to mind this poem, which also speaks of desolation and loss, this time in a garden setting. The poem, in turn, calls to mind my father, and I wish we could chat for a bit.
Just as the poem hints of spring gardens to come, I look forward to more father-daughter talks someday.
by Margaret S. Mullins
As a child, my father helped me dig
a square of dense red clay, mark off rows
where zinnias would grow,
and radishes and tender spinach leaves.
He'd stand with me each night
as daylight drained away
to talk about our crops leaning on his hoe
as I would practice leaning so on mine.
Years later now in my big garden plot,
the soggy remnant stems of plants
flopped over several months ago,
the ground is cold, the berries gone,
the stakes like hungry sentries
stand guarding empty graves. And still
I hear his voice asking what I think
would best be planted once the weather warms.