Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
NURTURE VERSUS NATURE
The sky crumbles inward,
darkness the Braille message in heavy tufts
while he states the obvious:
I think you should come inside.
I kneel among flat shadows
as they knit the ground in bruises,
sift my fingers through the earth,
plucking small weeds from lines
of tender leaves; a droplet
plops on the back of my hand.
You're going to get soaked: he warns in a rumble.
I cringe, wonder how we became complicated;
why a little more rain would matter to cutworms
or the sharp stones I've discovered in broken soil.
The storm begins to batter the plants.
I watch them flinch, each flower
bowing its head to the furious deluge.
Drop after drop;
down, harder now
with no promise of ever stopping.
Then he says: Go on. They'll be fine
even though I'm not so sure.
I remember my suitcase
hidden under the spare tire
and wish I could take my garden.
Kim Keith, Phoenix, Arizona
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