July 14, 2026

seed

You can’t stop now, when the vines still bear another week of snow peas,
and the gladiolas are about to show their faces, when there’s a second
coat of semi-gloss to add to the hallway and the makings of a cardboard
boat in your garage and you’ve yet to crack the code of folding a fitted sheet.
There’s that song whose chords stretch your fingers in complicated ways
and a recipe whose baking time is not yet right, and your hair is almost
getting to that point where it starts to curl, which always makes you think
about that crazy art festival in the high desert of Nevada, where you rode
a beater bicycle in the middle of a dust storm, searching for your tent
and finding shelter, instead, with wiry-haired strangers who offered you
slices of fresh cucumber. And how, saved from the maelstrom outside,
you found yourself kneeling on faded pillows, reaching into Tupperware
for the first pale green disc and the joyful startle of the cold and sweetness.

You can’t go back. But you can’t stop now. This many years later,
the wet mark of fruit on your fingertips. The pearl of seed
still in your mouth.