is when all that’s fertile comes together with dirt and
these seeds are planted: who, what, where. and when
hands runnel through soil, fingers spread leaves and wrap
tendrils around. what clings, what holds on, what rises
night, in your bed: radishes nudge deep into folds of soil,
carrots reach for water after another sprint of growth
and lettuce yawns wide with green throats open to sing
of chlorophyll, carbon, a good rain.
it’s when i get dirt under my fingernails that won’t wash away
that i know why this garden’s got under my skin like
the taste of fresh green, or a tomato we have watched
grow from a yellow star, burst now with a shared taste of red
where all is cool. how bodies brush gently
rustling the sheets like leaves spread:
at night we know, certain what’s going to grow
has already been planted, already craves
this fertile earth instead.
Alisa Gordaneer lives, writes, edits, and teaches writing in Victoria, BC.