Patient Gardener

Sweet Sprout,
it’s time you knew 
the years she spent attending 
this dry, acidic soil bed.

Your predecessors
curdled in ground’s
womb before
could bathe them.

Fist gripped on spade
she hacked and
dug at weed
and stubborn stones.

With muddied knees she
poked and prodded
until the ground
out it’s sickness.

Focused brow–sweating,
smudged– bulging seed,
just germinate!
And then
(tear-soaked) you did.

Nourished, bed-fed,
grounded–you will
unfurl. You will
You will lift her from

her knees. And
hands to the sky,
she too will take root.
Staking herself
to this holy place

where the Almosts
decay and become
the soil that nourishes
you both
from the inside out.

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