I Don't Have A Green Thumb

I once bit an apple too close to the core

and lived in fear for about a year

that my uncle’s words would come true

and the seeds I’d swallowed

would birth a tree within me,

but those seeds didn’t take root

and ended up being of no more consequence

than any seeds I’d ever plant --

the blueberry field or the apple orchard I’d planned

for our yard never surfaced;

the little basil plant in my window stayed

in eternal hibernation beneath his soil,

and the avocado tree my grandmother promised

would pop up beneath my caring hands

must have snuck away to some other pot.

I’ve learned that planting oak trees

takes years for their roots to form

and their long, strong bodies to strengthen and tower,

over the woods. Perhaps my seeds will work like that.

Little drops of something - an idea, joy, a word, love -

not much at first, but something slowly

growing to be all it can. I may not know much

of planting, but I know patience and love,

and perhaps there’s not much difference.