As I face the space inside my heart,

Mingled with the anxiety in my head,

Dust out the corners and remove the dead-

Petal-less garden.

At first it’s tough, dried up soil and cat shit everywhere,

But I take that ho and pound the ground.

I hit it so hard and remove the cracked thirsty dirt.

Till I can see:

Moist nutrients, dark black and brown,

 Ringy worms of the earth crawling around.

And I throw that splintered ho,

Collapsing to my knees, grasping fistfuls of dirt-

 Inhaling the potential.

The stinky manure-like potential,

Knowing that something good can come out of shit.

Hole. 

Seed. 

Hole. 

Seed.

Hole. 

Seed. 

Hole. 

Seed. 

Hole. 

Seed. 

Hole. 

Seed. 

Hole.

Seed.

Covering them in blankets of soil and drowning them in H20.

Seeds. Seeds. Seeds.

The witching hour.

Now the night falls.

The moonlit sky reflects on my soaked garden. 

Singing, dancing, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting with care and love.

Waiting for the harvest.