September 3, 2024

because there was nothing I could do to save him

I tore into the packet of arugula seeds, cast them flagrantly where I’d just
ripped out every piece of evidence of the failed corn. I couldn’t bear to keep 
looking out the window at the same blight, refused one more day
of fruitlessness, all the silk gone wiry and brittle. With the rake, I churned 
the earth like a sorceress, doused the bed with wild sprays from the hose.
Who knew if I was too late, my movements chaotic, the seeds thrown every
which way. But I still had my fists in summer, still held in my mouth 
the memory of leaves, still clung to the greening in my own heart. 

I would have so much preferred that other life. 
Yet this morning, the tiniest persistence awakening.