Last Spring I planted a seed;
I dug a hole out in the garden, near the hyacinths
and tucked you in,
nice and tight,
waiting for you to greet me.
Outside was all this splendor and I knew you,
seedling,
would only make my world brighter --
to know my hands were Makers, Doers,
to have dirt beneath my finger nails,
in the creases of my palm.
I thought you would be grateful but
your bed was too warm, your new home too cozy,
and by mid-Summer I realized that you weren’t coming.
You stood me up
but I’m not angry.
I planted you too late; I expected you,
and I wish I hadn’t.
The hyacinths have overgrown now and I’m not sure where you lay anymore.
Hopefully your bed will keep you safe until I join you, one Winter.
