Planting

A poem for RedWheelbarrow SpringChickens contest.

A warm storm rolled through last night.
The wind shook the trees and
planted sticks in the yard.
The mornings are snippy and have Opinions.
I ignore the bitterness of the chill because I prefer the cold.

It's time to
gather up seed packets
and my ambitions to plant.

I know I have flower seeds in a Ziploc bag
in my fridge. Every year, I hope they will
take root in my yard
and I'll water them
and I'll pick out the weeds
and I'll watch them bloom.

This year will be different.

I won't carefully plant the seeds.
Won't watch them poke up from the soil.
Won't water them carefully, day by day,
until they are big enough to go outside.
Won't forget them then and bring them
inside the next morning, burnt and thirsty
and shocked from the scandalous Opinions
of the morning.

No, because this year I'm going to
find the bag in the fridge
and go down towards the pile of sticks
and throw the seeds around.
I'll let the neighbors watch them rise
and I'll let the storms water them
and I'll let the birds pull up weeds
but then
I'll still watch them bloom.