Knees worn green, hands clayed
with sand & muck, I wear my life
pursuit, no less a bruise. I persist
bed making in sweat & stain
for idylls in spring. What emerges
from such ambition? My open palm
cradles each seed, sun-dried hope
from a three-chambered pod
like a frog heart, amphibious
throb of suckle & thrust.
The organic engine muscles
a knuckled promise held tight.
There is no vanity in birth.