To Grow, To Be
I am going
to plant the herbs,
the ones I always
buy and wait too
long to bed.
Basil, oregano,
cilantro, rosemary,
chives, and mint.
Some have yellowed
in the containers
where they sit.
Some are spindly
grown, branching
for a sun they
intuitively know
exists. This is
the poem I write
while the listless
spade, soil, sun,
and rain wait
on their last
nerve for me,
the writing gardener,
planting to grow
and writing to be.