You count seeds with me
and I am tired of countable things.
When I count them, they…

they… stay the same. All
in order like a motor
in my clockwork.

Yet I plant seeds
and you plant trees and
I pick flowers while you

pick flowers and I wonder who
becomes the failure.
I plant the same seeds

but you… you… grow
into something new.
There are petals or there aren’t.

We sprout from the same earth. I need
to water this something-patch-of-dirt.
If I do, I will feel. Something.

(originally published in Subnivean, Winter 2021)

Leave a Reply