Planting.

A sheaf of papers and 158 ways to cut them down. Bind and bale them for resurrection as feed when the fertile land goes frozen six months of the year. Scatter over soil as a weed repellant in the garden, or compost the lot for future flowers. I have no imagination for re-organizing the organic, no understanding of how wild growth can be tamped down into neat rows and planting cycles. Insistent morning glory binds memories in tight tendrils.

Perhaps the dirt beneath my fingernails will prove to be a tactile guide, to pry the words from earth and plant with care – away from vines that choke and the tangles that erode meaning between the lines. Toes deep in the muck after a late-spring rain, hands curled into tools ready to put order to the summer’s work.

(Yes, I am wretched as a poet. I know.)