The plot conceived, I pencil out
the rows, tamp down the labels,
eggplant here, carrots there,
Brussels sprouts and thyme.
 
I plant the seeds indoors, crow
when they sprout, watch over
them with love, count each little leaf,
tend each uncoiling sprig.
 
Set outside to harden, they
rebel, strips of paper flying off,
ink bleeding away, pots a mess
of growing unknowable stuff.
 
The corn I know, tomatoes
and the tendrils of a squash. But what is
this dark round leaf, this odd
frond, this rough purplish petal, this mess?
 
My plants go into the ground
like that, what could be beets
paired with onions, kale mated
to yams, jicama to dill. They thrive,
 
create an unruly jumble of leaves, stems,
blossoms. I gasp! A tiny sugar snap pea. 
I pull it off, take a bite, gasp again at the
sweetness in my mouth. Then I begin to cry.


© by Ruth Gooley.
Used with the author’s permission.