NaPoWriMo, Day 12

12 Apr




The summer came forward as did the aphids
and flea beetles, hungry for more

of what I offered—crookneck squash, tea
roses, my hands a servant of rain and larvae.

I once saw a sawfly lay her eggs on the backs
of my tomato blossoms, their minute yellow

flowers as much a part of this world as
the roses, the sawflies, my grief. The pearl

eggs turned hungry and my tomatoes never
came. I collected my empty baskets and mourned.

What I did not see was how devoted I had become
to the creep of sorrow, its holes chewed straight

through me, its pale caskets of silk. It was the decay
I praised—how resilient its mouth, its exhibit

of hunger, its blind, bearable life.

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