It’s time for me to grow
impatient now, time to worry
I fertilized too hard
or seeded too deep,
time to think
the scarlet sage
and French marigolds,
the peonies and pansies
and phlox I buried
like treasure against
the uncertain future
will never grow for me.
The weeds in my back yard grow
hard and fast as weeds
do, crab grass pushing
its tough blades up against
impatient now, time to worry
I fertilized too hard
or seeded too deep,
time to think
the scarlet sage
and French marigolds,
the peonies and pansies
and phlox I buried
like treasure against
the uncertain future
will never grow for me.
The weeds in my back yard grow
hard and fast as weeds
do, crab grass pushing
its tough blades up against
| r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal winter/spring 2007 Sobriety, Year One by Victoria Pynchon |
the stone paving leading
to the compost heap.
I’m always down
on my knees pulling
at the roots, building
burial mounds of limp
green grass, stacking
like cord wood the purple
stalks of the wicked
weeds, sweating,
wiping dirt
from my face.
I was just hoping.
If I planted knowingly
a profusion of color
a wealth of delicate flowers
might also grow for me.
Echo Park, 1994
to the compost heap.
I’m always down
on my knees pulling
at the roots, building
burial mounds of limp
green grass, stacking
like cord wood the purple
stalks of the wicked
weeds, sweating,
wiping dirt
from my face.
I was just hoping.
If I planted knowingly
a profusion of color
a wealth of delicate flowers
might also grow for me.
Echo Park, 1994
