Aphids are born pregnant.
I don’t want to believe it,
but it makes sense, considering
what’s happening in my kale.
And Google confirms it.
They are born pregnant.
And their embryos are also
pregnant. Three generations
of garden cripplers in each tiny
soft-bodied bug.
No matter how much I hate
and curse them, I have to admire
such insistence, such dedication
to survival.
It is like gratitude,
I think. Sometimes, it seems
as if there’s not much to be grateful for,
but if I can think of one blessing,
then often, buried in its belly
is another blessing,
and that gives birth to another.
Soon there’s a teeming colony
of gratitudes. And although
the news might try to squish them
or wash them away,
they persist.
Yes, all those tiny feasting gratitudes,
how easily they find a way
to thrive. How impressive
their tenacity, their drive.