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.
