At dusk, I’ll rise from aching knees,

back knotted with age and toil,

retiring, finally, to the garden shed

among rows of seeds and potting soil.

With the lantern shedding its tiny glow,

and Black Sabbath on the radio, we pass

a joint between us and peer out the window––

sweet smoke rising like some silent psalm.

Two slight dimples pressed into the ground

recall the weight of me sowing life into

that coarse ocean of darkness like God

eternal, breathing light and love askew.