Monday, March 4, 2019

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

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