Every year it’s something with the hose.
There was the year we started to unravel
it in early spring, and found a nest of impossibly
tiny mice and their startled mother, She plucked
them one from the coils and ran into the grass,
not understanding our voices urging her to stay
as we watched helplessly from the porch where
we’d retreated. There are years when the hose
is cracked, years we cannot remember which spigot
in the basement turns the water back on, years
where water leaks from a hundred invisible holes
like the hose’s practical joke. Last year the hose
was put back hastily, careless work by the teenager
doing all the yard jobs when his father fell ill. I finally
unspooled the long tangle, coaxing the snake of the hose
out like Eve in her forlorn garden while Adam was larking
about naming animals and boasting he was the first one.
Now, after all my struggles the water will not come.
Somewhere in the dark basement is a spigot I need
to locate. I don’t know which one it is as we never
bothered to label it when we had the chance.