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.