day SEVEN HUNDRED and SEVENTY FOUR

The Gardener

I was a bulldozer.

I plowed through the days

pushing earth into neat rows

casting errant seeds;

partying, waiting tables, a degree.

I was now depleted. My garden wouldn't grow.

I plowed the field, tilling my soil

underestimating my garden’s beauty.

I nurtured loneliness from a sprout and

over-watered alienation; my acre remained barren.

I chased after the seasons,

Then seasons changed and furrowed through me.

I stifled the buds in youth, killing the parcel

I worked hard to grow.

Now I am what grew from that earth.

My seasons generous,

my garden full.

--Jeri Thompson