My parents know the language of gardens.
They read patterns of feather and flight path,
then tell me of ripening apricots or a swell
of August plums in distant orchards,
as if wrens were printed gossip.

My father tends to the hummingbirds.
Power tools are beyond him, now,
but he can brew syrup that's stronger than sap.
"Tch. Fewer each year, but we have orioles.
There are two; perhaps they'll nest,
if the cats don't get them."

My mother cuts wilted peony blooms;
spent flowers fall bruised on damp ground.
She says: "There. Now the strength goes
to the leaves and roots and next season."
The detritus is buried, a perennial treasure
already fermenting to the feed of spring.