Hour 6: And Sow, The Garden has Grown

(an adapted villanelle)

 

The taste of the word love was ashes in my mouth.

The chewed up, spit out fuel feeding someone else’s flaming desire.

I sowed my garden with it, and things grew.

 

In the early spring, when it was new,

we shoveled compost and turned the earth,

but the taste of the word love burned like ashes in my mouth.

 

Seeds were planted in abundance and with the expectation of bounty.

Even as the rains came drowning our passion,

I sowed my garden with it, and things grew.

 

The heat rose, and as it baked, the earth burned.

Tomatoes stripped of promise by horned caterpillars,

and the taste of the word love lingered like ashes in my mouth

 

By fall I had lost most of the squash.

Their rich potential wormed away by resentment and neglect.

Still, I sowed my garden with it, and things grew.

 

There were late season pumpkins, ripe and buttery orange, more zucchini

than I could bake into bread, and a surprising peck of green peppers.

The taste of love left ashes in my mouth,

yet I sowed my garden with it, and things grew.