In and out, the water dripped onto
bright carrot leaves and
soaked into ripe tomatoes.
We would dig until dirt could
not leave our fingernails.
If I was lucky, I got to take home
a handful of mint for my mother’s tea.
After twelve summers of
growing, caring and leaving,
the same water that brought life
has brought death, one cell at a time.
It did not care if it was
sitting on the flesh of squash
or the flesh of a brain.