Broadcast
When my finger rips the paper packet
Seeds burst out all over my hands, no matter,
You always say it's better
Scattershot. These hands, oh how I wish
These were not my hands, crabbed
And cracked, their grace a ghost.
All so tiny, so tiny, I wouldn't know where
They fall even if my eyes could make out
Where they fall. What kind of seed
Would demand a fall planting?
I'll buy the lie of freshening air,
Pretend this is a place fit to begin.
There, there, find a niche, little spill,
Frost, earth heave and crack--
They say you want to be broken like that.
It's hard to believe. In summer,
Skin-thin wrinkled petals, a fat
Sac of sap. If this works, next fall,
Your pain will be nothing and your vision
Brilliant and it will feel like it will never end.
2 comments:
This one if one of my favorites; love your poems about plants & the soil. I used to grow Chinese poppies & am well acquainted with those sacs of thick sap. Man, those papery fluttering petals, like silk skirts or the ribbons of girls' boaters. You make me want to grow them again - it should never end.
I miss you, slothrop. I miss writing, too. Gods aren't talking to me much lately. Will have to wait it out.
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