garden haiku

Little sprigs push up through

dirt, hopeful, though nights bite

still, with hurtful chill.

Will these brave green threads

stretch root enough to weather

through to warmer days?

Once overbold, early

cilantro sprouts shrink down

again, chill-chastened.

I plant and replant,

hoping this batch, this time, will

last till green. Grow strong!

Poor system: to seed

but not to cherish. Little

sprouts neglected droop.

No salad spring, no 

summer squash. Hope untended

yields no fruit but rot.

Garden hungry, I 

have, bare handed, torn roots

of trees from clinging dirt.

Every year my plots

packed with good soil and seeds

sprout strong, joyful weeds.

I will be gardener

for insects. Spiders, squash bugs, 

wasps, and worms: welcome.

I'd bury myself

in sweet dirt, if I could, smell

the sun draw me up in leaves.