Tomato vines, and her tanned, wrinkled shoulders

Her silver hair hanging      
in a braid down her      
thin, strong back,      
made me ache to      
be like her as      
we picked      
green tomatoes      
to put on the      
windowsill.      
     
The smell of the tomato vine      
was menthol to my      
queer little mind,      
something like soul salve      
with its elusive      
tang of green      
and spice      
and pure.      
     
Her planter boxes held      
snapdragons,      
and petunias,      
and pansies,      
and the box nearest  
to the kitchen      
always gave a few      
tomatoes, peppers and eggplant      
during the hot Florida summer.      
     
She wore gloves to keep her      
nails nice,      
and lipstick, because a lady does;      
her skin a modern nightmare      
of wrinkles and color,      
and she,    
a suede goddess of things that grow,      
like plants and granddaughters,      
would sigh as her hands sank into      
the good ground,    
and the sun made    
sweat droplets      
dance among      
the baby hairs    
at her temples.      
     
She crossed an ocean,      
lost her only    
child to a dragon’s kiss,    
and in an era when      
women didn’t,      
she did.      
     
She had a god,      
a garden,      
a granddaughter      
to comfort her      
in her beautiful      
aging,      
     
and while I never      
heard her cuss,  
she embodied      
the art of      
zero fucks.      
     
In those brief years      
I had a mother;    
   
in those years      
I still believed I could      
empty the ocean      
with a paper cup,      
and have an unbent back      
with a good heart.      
     
In those days,      
she put my hair      
in a braid      
so that I could      
I could      
be like her;      
     
she put my hands      
in the earth      
so that I’d    
remember      
to be      
like me      
     
and until I smelled      
the tomato vine      
in your planter box      
     
I’d forgotten      
how to be either