That Shade of Green Known as Blooming

What to make of the garden—
calling for hoe, rake,
my untrained fingers? There,
a chorus of chapped crocuses
open-mouthed and crying.

I take them for tulips, daffodils—
anything with petal and stem.
I can’t tell kale from lettuce—
stuck in the ground, their leaves
green and glistening.

See all the things I fail at?

If only I could make a meal
from iron and mud and blood,
burn tungsten on a defiant stove
and call it curry, call it the hours
between now and now.

If only I could manage
to bring it all to a boil—
the pot, the house, the unpaved
road until even the rocks
sing with wet voices.

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