Part 1

Moist, dark soil, ready for new life to begin.
—Tina Davidson

We live for this all winter, the first trip to
the nursery to see the babies, to coochie-coo
under their tiny leaves, to fondle their
too-heavy heads, so hard to hold up.

We can’t wait to bring them home
and tuck them into their beds, freshly
turned dirt waiting for them, our hands
busy with implements, a little food,
a hose—whatever we think they need
to grow.

We often come home with too many,
then search for places to put them.
But we find them places where we
will check on them probably far too
often. We will enthuse over each
centimeter of height, over new leaves.

We will pluck the shedding bits, and
yes, some of them we will mourn,
gone before their time. Already in
their resting places, we may just
tuck them under a bit more, thank
them for what they brought to us
in their brief lives, remember their

perkiness when we brought them home,
full of promise, as we promised them
everything, refusing to think of
the moment they would leave us,
kneeling in supplication, dirt
under our nails,

before we turn again to the ones
still growing—the taller, bushier,
thriving ones we hope, with luck,
will outlive us.

***

To listen to Jan read this poem, click here.