Plowing our hardened souls, breaking apart boulders of heart tendons. Grasping handfuls of warm earth between our slender memories. Weeding thoughts sprung between the roots of radishes. Watering our hearty hopes and daffodils with slippery wishes. Writing messages to God, to our past selves, to our imagined futures—with stubborn sticks in the muddy remembered. Raking leftover laments into piles, leaping into them, laying underneath; allowing grief to pile upon us leafy layer upon leafy layer, until our toes, our noses, the tips of our tongues are buried beneath. Reaching toward one another until our pinky fingers embrace; waiting to feed our garden with our bodies, the nutrients of death.