kneeling in the divine dirt,
ever in awe
seeds I have sown
and prayed over,
like tiny miracles,
I’m thinning basil seedlings.
Eggplant, you’re next.
I’ve killed dozens of pepper shoots,
mourning the products of
seeds that worked so hard,
tossing them out the door.
Only the very best survive.
The cat runs by with a chipmunk who may escape her maul
but will more likely end up in the middle of the yard,
his entrails split over the new-cut grass while she,
without a trace of blood on her mouth
or guilt on her head,
returns to perch on her chair,
and watch me commit murder most foul.
And the morning after,
the ancient fir,
bearing one more scar,
and having surrendered
one more piece of self
to the swirling storm,
not the broken branches
beneath its boughs,
but the heights still to scale.
how do i explain to her
that it doesn’t get better
that it will smother
then soothe and drown her
until battered but still unbound,
she no longer fears the undertow
learning to float,
she will be better
Sometimes it seems easier to believe in them,
To see their sparks needing to be fanned and fed,
Than it is to do the work that feeds my own,
But when the prodding turns the embers into flames,
Their white hot divine makes plain that when I believe in them,
I believe in me.