Twelve: On ripening fruit

Twelve on crutches,
You could do none of your own
Tilling, digging, planting, drilling of garden-box
Screws into dead wood joints by proxy,
Screws into spiral fracture of living bone.

Fragility:
running with a baby in arms,
daredevil bike slides,
hidden eggs on the ground underfoot,
sprigs of fresh greens taped into a diorama.

You could drag and pull over rocks
To water,
Water,
Water the box.
Green, glistening dew-dropped fruit in the dark
As the horned worm gnaws nearby.
Waiting for ripening,
Waiting for mending.

Giddy excitement over a classmate's
project choice:
Sticks suspended, hung into hot solution:
Slowly formed sugar-crystal
Dashed and divvied
Among smaller, sticky, reaching palms.
Pushing a pillow-padded plastic box car,
Carefully cushioning contents,
A thrilled young cousin.

Encircled by twelve stone oxen from other worlds,
Living, healing bones submerge
For dead dry bones.
One foot in girlhood, the other stepping over the line,
Into the living water,
Washing sweet, seeded fruit for the harvest.