Where stone fences merge
into a wilderness of suburbia,
grandfather leans on the shadow
of a plunged spade, embracing
unchartered passages of wind.

Balancing thinly, he weaves
like needle and thread
through heads of cabbage,
heart-shaped tomatoes,
and green flags of young celery;
he is an ancient tongue
among deaf ears; he steps forward
before the day gathers
into a mortal echo
of uneaten fruit,

sowing himself among
the dark hands of water.