Planting Season

I've been writing a lot of these domesticity poems lately. I started over a year ago with two and then a fallow period for months. Since I've been writing seriously again, they've been occurring to me more often. As a series, I don't know where they're going, but I like them.

Domesticity Poem #4

Despite the stream
of rush hour traffic below,
the plumes

of exhaust, and all day
noise, together,
we have done this:

pushed impossible
small seeds into peat,
watered and waited.

Now, days later,
on our narrow stucco
terrace, in a plastic

hothouse, tender tendrils,
green and white,
unfurl under our eyes.

For the first time in years,
we have coaxed
something new

out of something small,
hard, and cracked open.
Each new morning,

I marvel at the shoots
sending new fragile roots
into the soil,

at the minuscule
fleur-dis-lis leaves
reaching towards the sky.