The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth. — T.S. Eliot, East Coker
i soaked the shriveled peas for hours,
watched in fascination as the water swelled
their dusty skins to the bursting point
and newly plump green bodies proclaimed their potential.
i carried them to the garden
and streaked their sweet faces with inoculant,
blackening my fingers to the knuckles
with nitrogen-fixing microorganism.
then i buried them in the soil, patting the
earth firm, pausing to watch a harvester mite,
small and red as a drop of blood,
wend his solitary way across the grave.
if young men ought to be gardeners,
let them water their seeds with tears
until the ground from which they came
finally births the fruit of laughter.