I planted some seeds in April.
My father mixed the potting soil for me
He explained about the chemical processes,
And the moisture,
And I saw that dirt is not just dirt.
He brushed his earth-covered hands
On that morning’s church trousers
So I wouldn’t dirty my nails,
And made silly sounds like “plip!”
When we dropped the seeds
Into their little recessed beds.
To each he bade a dramatic goodnight
And gently tucked them in to germinate.
I planted more alone at home,
But it didn’t make much of a poem.