Plastic owls perch on plum trees,

trumpet vines scale the fence,

my grandfather kneels,

hammers planks into place.

Over-ripe palms, creases

etched as deep as the cracks

in the split hickory handle

of his rust-burnt hammer.

Planting slats deep in Babylon,

his earth, he looks up, peeks

through day-rays, cheeks fold

wrinkled denim into blue eyes.

He turns, measures me:

Drive in this post.

Hands caked with dirt, sweat

heavy, he pitches me

the tool, a first onus

for callow hands.