I’ve never doubted sowing seeds
that is, since learned that, no, not all of them will make it,
place two or three in every hole.
I’m not afraid when nothing comes up.
It’s when things work, when choosing
which one will grow, which others will go, knowing
There is terrible hardship ahead,
nothing but sweating, with the choice
which, of these few, will I come to or do love?
Maybe I’ll never understand how consequence comes
later, I’ll taste something unmistakable
that every summer always seems a miracle.
What I know I’ll never understand is why,
after sifting through the year’s most difficult decisions,
why winter forces us to cut down every stalk
still left standing?