I Have Loved Men

I have loved men who love dirt,
who stump the hand-plow deep in earth,
tilt and twist it, testing whether this year’s toil
will break their backs or open wet and loose,

men who lift gift bags of baby okra,
corn for stripping and nibbling,
men shining with sweat, dirt clinging
to shoes, to shorts I yearn to remove,

men who thrust their hands in soil,
finger the hole, fill and tamp it,
men whose minds envision a bed,
purple and yellow, crocus, iris,

bashful men, who come exposing
their failing hearts, red tulips sunk
in mossed earthen pots laced
in maroon and green wild calla leaves,

men whose cars stay stuffed
with clumps of mud and mulch,
who prune with knives and clippers.
Men who angle against time:

two lie boxed
inside the dirt they worked,
a third one slants.  I, too, lean,
edging toward earth.