Descend plank steps and
land
on a dirt floor
littered
with moldy boxes, an old
water heater,
and a porcelain sink.
Blurry half-windows indicate
March’s bipolar moods,
or maybe, just
the peculiar Midwest gray
on either side of
winter.
Is this what having to decide
(again) to live will
do?
Roofed by floor joists and
walled around
by foundation bricks, find
a hundred minute
miracles.
Grow lights coax from
trays of soil
the tenderest of
sprouts;
from seeds fine as
splinters, come
ageratum, herb, and
coleus
which glows color
long before it
blossoms.
This is artistry.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Thomas!
ReplyDeleteGrowth and beauty from the darkness . . . this poem made me think of my mother-in-law's painting; I think I shared it in your creative writing class one day.
ReplyDeleteOh, yes, I remember how beautiful your mother-in-law's painting was, and how you expressed to us the way it embodied her journey and lovely soul. I wish I could have known her. Some day, I guess. Love you!
ReplyDeleteYou got a head start on me. I didn't start my seedlings until March. Do you have space and sun to grow vegetables? Gardening is one of my favorie things to do. My basement has a dirt floor like yours, and it's full of stuff, including all of my trays for seedlings, but I build a solar window where I start the seedlings.
ReplyDeleteVery nice to read about starting seedlings in poetry, a pleasant combination of pleasures.
I'm glad you enjoyed this, Newell. Sadly, I now live in an upper story apartment with no "bit of earth" to my name. This poem stems from my recollections of starting plants indoors as a teenager while still living at the home place. My family dipped into several "small farm" ventures, one of which was selling cut flowers at farmers markets. We started hundreds of plants, many different kinds, including some vegetables for our own use, like broccoli and tomatoes. And we didn't plant the seeds until March, either. Gardening is lovely, isn't it?
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