At the hill tomb
At the hill
tomb, she
finds nothing.
She tells the
guys, and they
run to find
folded blooded
linen. She sits
on the grass
of the garden,
and the gnarled
gardener is
there, his sweat
rich with grit-
clumped dirt, his
hair thisway
andthat. She
sees him take
the innocent
seed and thumb
it into the
maternal loam,
and the bread
is broken.
Patrick T. Reardon
7.8.18
This poem originally appeared in Time of Singing, Spring, 2018.
Written by : Patrick T. Reardon
For more than three decades Patrick T. Reardon was an urban affairs writer, a feature writer, a columnist, and an editor for the Chicago Tribune. In 2000 he was one of a team of 50 staff members who won a Pulitzer Prize for explanatory reporting. Now a freelance writer and poet, he has contributed chapters to several books and is the author of Faith Stripped to Its Essence. His website is https://patricktreardon.com/.