This poem was published in the UK literary magazine Small Leaf in 2021.
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gardening is a practice in compassion
ripping up weeds is my responsibility
alone. I learn this young
small hands swimming in patchwork gloves
as my mother and I care for a home
we are strangers in
she looks to me, hands on bent knees
a pile of loose dirt and dead plants between us
“you have to take the bitter with the sweet,” she says
//.
she does not mean the wild strawberries
that stain my fingers
red and my mouth
there is summer at our house
and there is winter
I crush red berries in my palm
let juice fill the cracks in my skin
I do not know of autumn and spring
///.
grass-stained knees
sweet dirt in my mouth
tastes like my strawberries
sooty soles blister on the pavement
from chasing the dog
I named
////.
the dog is dead
the skies are alive with snow
and the fruit is canned in thick syrup
the gas fireplace teases a warmth I know
nothing about
/////.
I am a child of spring
tending to the family garden and whistling to the trees—
“i’m home”
//////.
winter is a house that once was shared
its flesh pitted, the sides scraped hollow
seeds discarded in the bin
summer is a garden where I play make-believe
pulped fruit blistering and splitting in the heat
the smell of rot is still one of death
even if it’s sweet
///////.
I am bitter
wild strawberries do not belong to me.