Planting time

When the day adds minutes
to each end of itself
like a generous calling plan promising
more time to talk to the silent plants
more time to place the mute roots of
summer feasts within the reach of
dirt gloved hands

When the delicious decay
that is the warming soil
beckons in it’s full
pubic way—

Plant me
Plant me

How can the spring drunk hand
not touch,
not push
the roaming root to it’s new
warm place?

Guide the root to reach
for the juice that will spread and rise
through the already up reaching
already eager signal
green text message flashing in each
flowing vein.

Firm in it’s wet place
straight stem sends curls
from the mound of black garden
heaving in the new moon.
Unlimited calling to life
howling in carbon dioxide—
smoking in the relief of being
past the evolutionary tension of

Will I be heard?
Will I be planted?
Will I go on?