There’s an honesty to planting,
in saying to seeds,
here’s what I want from you:
grow.
Grow until your heads touch
the tallest slat on the tumbledown wall
and then bud. Break open your heads
and flower, and when that’s done,
fruit.
In return, I will give you
meal, minerals, the dung of cloven
animals. I will take measure
of your soil and add what you need,
take what I
should.
In January, I will hang you
with leftover fir,
grind trees
to place at your
feet.
I’ll pluck snails from your leaves,
sluggish brown bodies loathe
to part from your
succulence.
I will water you in a slow warm
stream, the garden hose wrapped
at my feet, a gently coiled cobra
who will not
strike.
I will break back
your dead wood.
I will feed you in spring.
I will take only what I need,
and then I will say to you:
sleep.
by Kate Buckley
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