Providing

I keep a careful crop of loves,

sowing and tending with the religion

of a priest.

Onions and peppers for friends,

beans for students.

For family, the sturdy meat of potatoes

with their many eyes.

If not perfect, I am at least

a squashy, sentimental gardener,

always looking for spoiled fruit, or a pumpkin patch

to cry in.

And by now I am used to the

hunter-gatherer you,

your mazy forests with their

elusive game. You come to me,

dripping blood. I know: this is what providing

costs you.

In winter, your arms are full of twisted, brittle sticks.

See, this is a season, we say

huddling over flint and tinder.

I will keep us fed. You keep us warm.