I plant the seeds
and the wind
carries them away.
They were small,
the size of
the word love
typed 12-point
in this poem,
and the beauty I imagined
would come from them
so great.
*
Where does
longing come
from?
Nothing wrong
with it,
says my teacher,
as long as
it is opening
us.
*
I plant the seeds
and the critters
I never seem to see
nibble the green shoots
in the night
until there is
nothing left.
*
It is not true
that there
is nothing
left.
Here I am.
Love.
There you are.
*
Now the edamame
on the other hand,
they leap
from the dirt,
bless them.
*
Into a bowl
I sing
a blue song.
*
Just as the seed
buried in the dark
seeks light,
the light
too,
seeks the dark,
seeks everything
that is not
light.
*
It never
comes
the way
I will expect
it will.
Look at
these melons
volunteering
in every corner
of the garden.
*
I tell myself
the dirt
is also
beautiful,
the dirt
where the flowers
would have been.
I almost
believe it.
*
Not quite.
*
If a woman
sings in a bowl
and there is
no one there
to hear her,
did she
make a sound?
*
In my hand,
more seeds.
I plant some of them
just the way
the directions say.
Some of them
I throw
to the wind.
A perfect ending, the throwing to the wind in contrast to such a speculative poem about the seeds’ process. Very nice. The title supports this idea too.
Now I want to listen for the woman singing in a bowl. Such a neat image.
“…and there is no one there to hear her,…” Good golly, Ms Molly! Ain’t she there? The woman singing into the bowl? She counts, doesn’t she? (No wonder she’s singin’ da blues….”
Such a menagerie of poetics and such. I’m betting this one another of the fun, playful times with the muses.
Yeah, she’s there to hear … But I think she might be disappearing … Which is a good thing.