My mother watered in the dark
in porch light: reading hour,
tucking in hour; she hauled
wheelbarrows of trees
wrapped in burlap.
Once I faked a bath,
wet my wrists, my knees, rinsed
my face, washed my glasses
with Ivory soap. In the living
room I lied.
Tonight, in the window
I see myself drag the hose
to the Japanese Maple, three years old.
I work down as though I am bathing
a daughter and her hair is tossed
forward into my hands, then
the belly and back I rinse for dust,
the arms I lift and wash
and dry, holding her between
my hands. My mother showed me
how to spray the leaves
so they can breathe, then lay water
against the earth and let all
of darkness drink.