A Green Thumb in the Eye of the Storm

photo by Jeeray Tang at Unsplash

I planted strawberries
for the inheritors of the earth
whether they be meek,
or Martians.

These modern poems require letters
to stand up for themselves
six feet apart or six feet
deep in the heart.

The truth has roots in the dirt,
a hope for blossoms, fruit.
The springing ground cover sends feelers
into town under the safety of bees.

Now the rain cleanses everything
outside the window. The streaking glass,
our new caretaker, frames
heaven as episodic.

My tiny green love aims
for your blue glove. The promise
of tasting good seems trivial
until breakfast.

The garden rows spell help.
You can only read it from above,
only believe it in the palm
of tomorrow.