my river sits in ebb

soil tilled and watered well, seeds
prepared and set aside. I found
a split barrel and emptied it of
debris, filled it with lily bulbs and wet
moss, set it beside the garden to await the
planting. sprigs of wild rosemary and mint, gathered
along the way into bundles tied with
vintage ribbon, scraps of tea-dyed silk
and splintery twine. I hung them
from the rafters to scent the still air.

scavenged sections of wood propped up, holes dug
to plant them where the walls stop
the gates are heavy, the sun searing
where it breaks through the clouds. but
inch by inch, slow progress is made
lifting into position before fixing them into
place with sturdy iron that earlier, I'd
scrubbed clean of rust and dirt.

now each gate section leans against the broken
wall, ready to lift and drop into the holes
for the wooden posts. they can rest there
while I tend to the garden.