When we first planted them,
we never anticipated
that everything else
would grow at such a rate.
That the black sugar maple
would reach far beyond
where the sunlight dances
and cover all the little eager leaves,
lying in wait.
That the temperatures would drop,
far colder than ever before,
and lay upon the earth
more ice, more frost,
shuddering
the garden floor.
Or that the neighbor’s poison
seeking ticks and such,
would waft into the yard,
killing wildflowers,
lilies,
the lupine—
when we let down our guard.
Our impatiens survived, though.
They find a way, don’t they?
And though it may still
be a few more years
before they flower,
they keep stretching,
reaching for the sun,
until they find the hour
When all their impatience,
all their desire to know,
finally meets the time
when they’re ready to grow.
— ❧ —
A Poem That Grows
I liked the idea of a poem growing, like a plant, imperceptibly until it finally blooms. So you’ll find in this poem that each stanza grows by one line until arriving at a definitive quatrain marking the completion of the young plant’s journey.
If you’d like to read more poetry, you can find more at In Verse.