Gardeners
We pull flowers in full bloom up out of the ground like weeds and plant
new seeds in the besotted soil, hands clasping dirt, heads bowed, consumed
by the scent of breath and grass. The way spring is never lacking
in unassigned duties, we make our own corrections. Silt over clay.
Annuals over perennials. Time measured by sun over moon. A prayer
escapes us for the rain's cooperation, but we are caught
unwittingly by the stare of a butterflies back. We revert to child's
pose. We watch our seedling grow taller, wider, reaching for both heaven
and earth. The fragile petals open the same morning every May. The only question
is if love is enough. The sun becomes too warm, the rain too heavy.
We make our own corrections.
Jessica Guzman lives in Tampa and sells cameras at an electronics store. Her poems have appeared in Shampoo. jguzman6272@gmail.com