I Wanted a Little Candlelight in the Garden

For whole seasons each carrot’s low wick
breached the buttoned parka of the earth. Even
the dark steals from the dark, my spade 
digs, rasping. And when pitch is soon sown,
folded and patted, burned and smoothed—
my primary state is a boy still crowned 
with the eggshell of confusion. Too still you rest
no more than a turnip beneath. 
In the spring I am here waiting for the help of any magic
for a person (a friend?) to untuck your small handkerchief
from any sleeve of earth. For maybe 
in a season you could still grow 
a hundred feet taller with everything
but legs to join me, and your old life. 

-Willie James