Greenhouse Draft 4

I push back sunglasses and
fasten leather gloves to
graze and weed flower trays.
My fingers pluck dead
blooms and beetles. My
shoes crunch gravel and
sweat pools over my
eyes and between breasts.
I twine my headscarf again as
wisps of burlap dance in the wind.
Mendelssohn fills the air, his
second movement buzzing
in time to the drips of hoses.
Dirt and fertilizer sprinkle
my neck and cheek, and I
sneeze as I smear my forehead.
Shears peak from my apron, caked
shut in dirt and grease of too many years.
The whirs of greenhouse fans
creak with violins and the toads.
I work with Maria, who runs from the toads,
the ones like poisonous Mexico.
Maria's feet spark the earth and
it rises to fluff my nose. The air smells of
pansies, earth, and mold. The dome
reaches for the heavens and the sun
strikes through the plastic folds.
A sparrow chirps outside, and seems
as loud as the pulse in my ears, throbbing legato.
Above, seven sprinkler heads jerk and
blades of water wink the flowers asleep,
sprinkling rust in my eye.
I hear Maria's whimpers and wonder
if the geraniums of Mexico are brighter.
I weave a rubbered stem into the tail of the scarf
and hum to mask the scent of Maria's salt scorching her lips.