Sunlight burst through the curtains like pain. A shrill alarm-clock burned away dreams. I was 18. 

I wore torn jeans and rode my 10-speed to the florist where he picked at his overalls. He pointed to a dropped tailgate. I sat in back on that gray rusted perch, bumping across dirt ruts to a wide ragged maw of shadows and old trees. In the shade spread a pachysandra field -- soft plant leaves pliant after the night's tearing rain, then the morning's balm of pastels at dawn. We cut all afternoon. 

A spear of silence pierced my day. He pointed again. Another grove. Another sea of endless, indifferent, shiny leaves.

We shoved plugs into planters like 10 egg cartons glued, and rode back toward sunset.

I watered the plugs until he pulled his pick-up into traffic. He sailed beyond a green light and shrunk into nothing.

So many days silent in the farmer's company. Why had I never wondered about lips pushing against mine? A hard shoulder under my cheek? A blaze in my stomach that seared me? I was 18. Late summer nights in the sand near the lake and alone, we tried.