Five days of plant-sitting (rev.)
They're tiny now, in one small shade of green,
these weeks-old infants in their perfect rows.
Already, though, I see them start to lean
towards the east, tenacious on their toes.
Dad told me that there isn't much to do:
just keep their bedding damp, no need to flood.
I tend, recalling 1992:
the drownings, accidental, in the mud;
and all my errors through the teenage years
then adulthood – neglect while I was high
and shining smiles or low and raining tears.
He's confident, these days, that they won't die.
They'll leave me soon, returning to his home
to find the summer sunlight all around
amidst the pots and saucers, grinning gnome,
and finest compost for their planting ground.
Published on
Insight Eye (Philosophy and Aesthetics) 8>)