I could start under a tree outside
my grandmother’s kitchen window,
or I could wait until the dog needs
a walk, or I could start over here
by the couch and stack of books.
Maybe not; maybe upstairs under
the bed or even in the basement,
back behind that pile of toys we
keep saying we’ll give away.
The garden is a possibility,
around the comfrey or the spent
peonies. Or maybe just here,
where an old man from when
I was a kid came up and asked
if I would look at his hands.