My shovel turns soil laced with earthworm burrows and thread-like roots.
I find treasure:
a tiny metal car missing its wheels,
a time capsule left by little boys some thirty years or more
before I decreed this space a garden.
They carved out roads, built bridges and dug holes for their dozers and trucks.
One of them sleeps in some distant red clay soil, outlived by the iris and spirea in my garden.
What I have left are memories
and little toy cars to find in unexpected places
left by one unaware that his days were already numbered
while he pushed toy cars through mounds of dust
in a future garden
planted by his mother’s aging hands.