All I planted came up,
balsam and nasturtium and
cosmos and the Marvel of Peru
first the cotyledon
then thickly the differentiated
true leaves of the seedlings,
and I transplanted them,
carefully shaking out each one’s
hairfine rootlets from the earth,
and they have thriven,
well-watered in the new-turned earth;
and grow apace now –
but not one shows signs of a flower,
If August passes
and the frosts come,
will I have learned to rejoice enough
in the sober wonder of
green healthy leaves?
As they say: #mood. To piggyback on yesterday’s poem and my own reality…what do you make of your life if you don’t find yourself bearing any flower, much less fruit? Do you redefine green healthy leaves as a sort of success?
This is the question threaded through my search for a single story, the question I am asking every tired workday, the thing I wonder every lonesome bednight. All my uhtceare and self-analysis and storytelling wrap around this question: what is the point? What am I here for, what am I doing?
Again, as Levertov’s “The Old Adam” puts it:
Where is my life? Where is my life?
What have I done with my life?