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.