Poetry Corner: Garden Report

by Jim Farfaglia

 

No sign yet.

 

Just the mound of dirt I dug up,

slipped you into,

sprinkled with rain water

and proclaimed your home.

 

I stop by every day,

say my version of a prayer

and pull a few jealous weeds

snaking toward you.

 

You are nothing yet but my hope –

which means you are everything.

I gladly dream of the day

I will stop by and see

 

your first tiny hand

waving hello,

your green

all the riches I need.

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