Watching the grass grow
by Heather Bourbeau
The hunched cat mewls at phantom squirrels,
cries for birds that have not come today. Then leaves.
For a moment, I mistake this for quiet.
I scratch myself on a thorn I do not see
for all the lemons mixed with roses.
Then I notice the fig now bent in supplication,
the apple tree suddenly bare of blossoms.
I strain to see new starts rise through earth,
witness the peel of bark, hear leaves unfold
on branches. For a moment, I am like an absent father,
aware what little part I play in the miracle
I almost ignored.
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