A Poem about Plants

Some thoughts on growing seedlings on your windowsill that I wrote.

Sometime in late October, when all the trees and plants
were folding away their foliage for next year,
I tucked two little bulbs into some moist dark earth.

They could have been minced into my dinner that night,
those pungent garlic cloves. But instead,
here at the end of the season of growth, they were trying out life.

They lay dormant for the longest of times,
Some days I watered them, a few days I did not.
This was our gestation period – the plant and I –
What would come of this battered black plastic pot,
of these few ingredients: bulbs, soil, water?

Weeks passed by and I began to give up hope.
           – Dud bulbs, irregular watering, don’t have green thumbs,
     something –
One morning (about time) I checked the pot as every other morning
     except this morning
there was a tiny pale-green nub poking out of the soil.

The world seemed to be contained in that five inch high container,
everything that had ever grown and will ever grow was in there
along with my excitement and the stalwart shoot thrusting itself up
day by day.

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