Nursery
The sun that sears your
back nourishes foetuses
in the soil; their fledgling
roots wrapped in rain’s
amniotic sap.
Wiggly frames ache
to sprout and share the
air you breathe.
You take stock,
it’s a mixed brood.
The tomato mommas
bring out an army of
plump, luscious offspring.
The peppers are late bloomers —
limp, disorderly, struck
by developmental delays.
Was their mother doped?
The vines you seeded
creep up on railing bars.
Your routine entwined
to their whorls.
The garden is a nursery of
haphazard brats. Edibles
and wilds tango with weeds
and cosmetics. Summer’s
the carousel they all ride.
The earth, your pliant
comrade, whispers
a chuckle through
its cracks.