Growth

photo by Alexander Albito

I worked in the garden this morning 
no podcast or music streaming 

into my ears only the sound of
my son’s construction trucks

plastic scoops digging and pushing 
wet earth. He rolled a bulldozer over 

a burgeoning phlox and burst into tears 
the small leaves pressed down into

dirt. It was an accident, he cried and crawled
into my lap. I know, I know 

I whispered into his hair recalling 
the incessant wail of his infancy,

nights when I dreamed of 
crushing him 

with my palm
like a pathetic little plant.