sand doesn’t grow in my grandmother’s garden

by Devon Bower

acid soil births abundance in the folklore of my grandmother’s garden—we go berrying—drop the bluest and the biggest in the bottom of our pale—fingertips hued purple—fingertips grasping searching holding—careful of cliffside—of leaves of three—of nests and slithers and hives—come dunk your head in the lake—a cool off—a rippled reflection—my face then my grandmother’s face then still water and aspen tops—we share our gifts with kin—tell them where we found the bountiful and they know it well—know that some years there is no rain and dead moss and few berries—I ask her why we don’t find berries like this back home—she says they love the lake the way I do—all sediment and deep roots—all body-lapping richness—needles—sun—glacial till—birds singing hymns in the soil—peat moss between your toes keeps it from drowning—who would have thought sweet could come from sour—thrive in low pH and high spirit—people try to plant for themselves—mix and mimic microbes—they add sand—she says—sand drains too well—sand dries too quickly—the roots have no reason for growth—each summer—she marks the top of my head against an oak post—each summer—we soak in the soil and swell with savor—hope to taste what cannot be redone

Photo of Devon Bower

BIO: Devon Bower is a poet and editor in Northern Colorado, holding a BA in English literature from Colorado State University.