The Harvest

My daughter’s ribbon has come loose from her braid

I noticed it while in the garden, digging for a sentence I had sown there

Before the house was our blessing and liability.

My words unearthed, I replace them with her blue ribbon

The part of me that wishes for a legacy hopes it is not biodegradable.

The ground is smoothed again; I guide my hand to my mouth

Placing the sentence inside and then chew slowly

I must not share it. There will never be a good time.