The instructions said
to lay it deep
six weeks at least
before last frost.
You followed the steps
more or less.
You want to check the progress,
hands itching to dig
for what hides in the insufferable
stillness
even if nothing.
Especially then.
Quiet the urge
to prod for a pulse.
Only tragic heroes
force an unripe
promise.
Only fools
split the goose.
Do a rain dance.
Hang your prayer flags.
Whisper into the waiting ear
of the sky.
Pretend to want something
else
long enough
to begin to.
Turn in circles
if you must.
It makes its way to you
not the other way around.
By all means,
tend your plot.
Just not too much.
Image: Lauren Marx, In My Bones, 2016
https://www.kcrw.com/news-culture/shows/the-organist/two-years-with-franz
Wow, he is… something else!
force of nature
http://hcl.harvard.edu/poetryroom/listeningbooth/poets/wright_franz.cfm