From Freshly Broken Soil

June, 2004

Our threadbare rental doesn.t have a yard,
So I asked our landlord if I could build
Some window boxes. I stood in the snow
To reach way up and bang them into place.
The world was still grey and brown when the seeds
Went in, and I would lean out the window
In the cold march rain whispering .grow, grow,
Grow.. The seedlings reminded me of your
Bed-head, drowsy spikes creeping their way out
From beneath the sheets. The plum tomatoes
Haven.t really taken hold the way I
Hoped. They should really have a bigger plot,
So they twist in cramped little knots, clenched like
Stubborn baby-fists. I.ll have to keep an
Eye on them, give them a little more time.
Everything in nature adapts to change.
Now that May warmth has impregnated the
Soil, daffodils and zinnias flounce like
Insolent teenagers, gaudy lapels
On a drab vinyl siding suit jacket.
I.m compelled to leave the kitchen window
Open, so that I might catch a breezed-in
Whiff of our tiny herb garden, cradled
In plain wood against the house.s boxy
Hip. As a result we.ve been raided by
Insects, but you have been ushering them
All the way outside again, instead of
Squishing them, just because I ask you to.
There.s good stuff here for your secret spice, like
Cilantro, basil, parsley, dill and thyme.
They are difficult to spot, however,
Having been completely suffocated
By the mint. Mint has a will of its own.
I hate the thought of pruning it back, but
It.s taken over such that I would not
Be surprised if it reached outside the box,
And right down to the street, a bridge of mint.
Maybe mint can go in your secret spice.